


Alarms in the Heart

by bearfeathers



Category: Rejseholdet | Unit One
Genre: Break Up, Canon Het Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Parenthood, Past Child Abuse, Post-Canon, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-30
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-20 21:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 35,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9516584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: To Thomas La Cour, Allan Fischer was a friend. A colleague. The godfather of his child. However, during Fischer's time undercover, La Cour is forced to consider that he may be more than that. The only problem now is finding out whether or not Fischer may feel the same. Well, that and the 400 miles between them.





	1. like a bridge over troubled water

**Author's Note:**

> yeah still can't get enough of all these dumb nerds so i decided to try a multi-chapter fic for the hell of it  
> i'm a firm believer in having my m/m ships without demonizing any female characters, so expect to see helene and mille a lot because i love them to shush  
> basically i can't control myself  
> and i'll wind up writing this  
> regardless of whether anyone reads it
> 
> YOU WANNA READ FIC  
> YOU GOTTA WRITE FIC  
> ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

_“Would you rather be with Fischer or with me?”_

 

La Cour rests his head on the steering wheel with a sigh. The question had caught him completely off guard, but even so, his response had been cowardly at best. He’d just __left__. His reasoning had been that since Fischer was being held in prison, the chance for a face-to-face meeting was rare and that he and Helene could talk about this when he got back. But Christ, what did that say about him?

 

She’d been right, he realizes, when she’d said whenever Fischer called, he dropped everything to go meet him. But it’s not as though he’s doing it because he doesn’t care about her. It’s work. And Fischer is a friend and colleague in a very precarious position. And it only makes sense that he watch out for him. And…

 

And he’s making excuses.

 

Lifting his head, he gazes blearily over the top of his steering wheel, out the rain-slicked windshield at the building before him. He really doesn’t have time to waste sitting here. Getting an audience with Fischer is a rare opportunity, not to mention a risky one.

 

So he steps out of the car, not particularly caring that he’s neglected to bring an umbrella, and trudges his way into the prison. They lead him to a guarded conference room, which is really more of a 16x16 cube with a table and two chairs. Fischer is already waiting inside. He’s sitting at the table, hands clasped before him and shackled. La Cour makes a harsh, annoyed sound and motions for one of the guards.

 

“Those won’t be necessary. You can remove them,” he instructs.

 

“Sir, it’s against policy--”

 

“I said _remove them_ ,” La Cour snaps. The guard is visibly startled and La Cour reminds himself that the man hasn’t done anything to warrant that kind of tone. He sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face, absently noting he needs a shave. “If anything should happen, it will be my responsibility and not yours. The warden is already aware of our meeting.”

 

The guard seems hesitant, looking to his coworker for confirmation. Receiving it in the form of a nod, he walks into the room and unlocks the cuffs, removing them from Fischer’s wrists and locking them onto his belt. La Cour waits until they’re alone in the room before taking the few short strides necessary to reach the table and sits opposite Fischer.

 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were the one locked up in here,” Fischer states. “You look like shit.”

 

“Lovely to see you, as well,” La Cour says. He leans forward in his seat, arms resting on the table. “But how are you, really?”

 

Fischer shrugs. “Alright. As alright as you can be in this situation, anyway.”

 

“Right,” La Cour agrees quietly.

 

“Did I pull you away from Helene and Marie?” Fischer asks.

 

“I… no, no, of course not. Don’t worry about that,” La Cour tells him, choking down thoughts of what Helene had asked him. “You needed me to come, Helene understands. So what happened, exactly?”

 

Fischer leans back in his seat, lighting up a cigarette. He takes several long draws in silence, seemingly determined to look anywhere but at La Cour. That sets off warning bells in La Cour’s mind, his gut twisting painfully with anxiety at what could possibly have gone wrong. He slides one hand forward a few inches, as though to reach for the man sitting across the table, but stops far short of doing so.

 

“Fischer,” he says insistently. “Talk to me.”

 

To his surprise, Fischer laughs. He runs a hand through his short, dark hair--which is longer now every time La Cour sees him--before picking up his package of cigarettes. Peeling the label seems to give him something to do.

 

“It was stupid to ask you to come,” he admits.

 

“What? Of course it wasn’t,” La Cour says quickly. “This isn’t going to work unless you tell me when to meet you.”

 

“Mm,” Fischer grunts. “But the reason I asked you to come tonight doesn’t exactly have to do with the case.”

 

La Cour knows his confusion must show on his face.

 

“The meetings have to stop. They’re getting too suspicious. So tonight when you leave, we have to make a scene of it. I’ve already got it all planned out; any further communication is going to have to wait until I’m released,” Fischer tells him. “You can’t come around here anymore.”

 

La Cour opens his mouth and then closes it. They’d planned for this, of course. He’s known it would have to happen eventually. Of course, their few co-conspirators within the prison’s staff will be watching for Fischer’s safety, but the idea of returning to work and essentially leaving this case suspended while Fischer is trapped within these walls for another four months makes his skin crawl. At once he feels selfish, knowing it’s infinitely harder on Fischer himself. He swallows and nods, prepared to leave.

 

“Yes. Of course,” he says. “I suppose I’ll see you in four months, then.”

 

“La Cour,” Fischer says, his hand shooting out to grab La Cour by the wrist, as though to keep him from getting up. “Listen, I didn’t ask you here just for that.”

 

“No?” La Cour intones curiously.

 

“No,”Fischer says. He snorts a laugh. “It sucks being in here.”

 

“Of that I have no doubt,” La Cour agrees.

 

Fischer seems to be struggling to say something. It’s clear he has a thought he’d like to voice, but it seems that words have failed him for the moment. He falls silent, his breathing growing heavy as he lowers his head to his open palm, cigarette dangling limply from his fingers. His shoulders quiver in the kind of way that makes La Cour’s chest tight.

 

“Fuck. __Fuck__  I hate it here,” Fischer hisses. “I hate that everyone thinks this is really me. I hate that I haven’t seen my son in half a year. Fuck. Fucking… _shit_.”

 

All the while his grip on La Cour’s wrist has been tightening, reaching painful levels, but La Cour makes no effort to pull away. They knew this would be hard. They knew that. But seeing Fischer like this gives La Cour cold feet for the first time since they’d begun.

 

“We can stop,” he says. “Fischer, we can stop this at any time. No one would think less of you--”

 

“ _Christ_ , no,” Fischer interrupts. “We’ve come too far, I’ve put too much into this to walk away empty handed, god dammit.”

 

“I know,” La Cour says. “I’m very much aware of how much you’ve put into this, but we agreed that if things went too far, you would pull out.”

 

“And I will, if it gets to that point,” Fischer says. “I’m just… getting some things off my chest while I still can.”

 

La Cour merely nods in response, though he knows Fischer doesn’t see it. His fingers have gone numb by now, but he doesn’t dare pull his hand away. The grip on his wrist feels so desperate, like an anchor trying with all its might to keep him weighted down. When Fischer looks up at him, his eyes are red, but dry. La Cour meets his gaze, holding it, waiting for something to happen.

 

“Apologize to Helene for me,” Fischer tells him.

 

“Of course,” La Cour says.

 

“You’re the only one I have left,” Fischer says, glancing towards the door. “I was thinking about that today. Out of everyone, you’re the only one that’s left. We planned it that way, I know, I know, but actually getting here is completely different from merely talking about it.”

 

“The others, they’ll understand. Once this is all over, they will,” La Cour assures him.

 

“You think so, do you?”

 

“Absolutely. We’re a team.”

 

“Were a team.”

 

“Are a team. Just because someone decided to split us up--”

 

“Since when are you such an optimist?” Fischer asks with a laugh.

 

“It’s not blind optimism. We’ve had years of experiences with these people to back that statement up,” La Cour responds.

 

“Well, I hope you’re right. Or maybe I don’t. I’m not really sure,” Fischer admits. He blows out a harsh breath. “La Cour. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

 

“That’s a ridiculous question,” La Cour snorts. “You’re Marie’s godfather for goodness' sake.”

 

Fischer chuckles at that but says nothing more, leaving La Cour to wonder what the aim of the question had been. He still has a feeling that something else has happened. This seems to be supported by the fact that despite everything said so far, Fischer still seems to be on the verge of saying something, but is holding back for whatever reason.

 

“What is it you’re not telling me?” La Cour ventures, peering at him inquisitively.

 

Fischer rubs a hand across his chin. “I can’t think of a way to put it without it sounding strange as fuck.”

 

“In all fairness, my threshold for ‘strange as fuck’ has increased dramatically in the past few years,” La Cour states dryly.

 

Fischer ducks his head and snorts in amusement, before finding him with his gaze once more. La Cour feels very nearly physically pinned down, and finds himself unable to look away. Fischer’s lips twitch into something resembling a smile.

 

“Forgive me for sounding completely queer, but I just needed to see you,” he admits. His attempt at a smile fails as eyes move away from La Cour’s, his expression reserved and bordering on embarrassed. He draws a deep breath before looking back to La Cour again. “You know?”

 

La Cour doesn’t trust his voice. He nods, swallowing thickly. The thought of Fischer now in here for four more months without being able to see him… Yes, he understands precisely what Fischer means. The grip on his wrist suddenly loosens, releasing him, bringing the stinging sensation of pins and needles with it.

 

“Can you even feel your hand anymore?” Fischer asks with some amusement.

 

“Not really,” La Cour answers with a huff of laughter.

 

“Idiot,” Fischer says, his tone unmistakably fond.

 

When Fischer rises from the table, La Cour rises with him. There’s a reluctance in their movements, both of them feeling the need to drag this out as long as possible. Their meetings are never long, but on this occasion, they find themselves stretching their time as far as it will allow. Every fiber of his being is screaming at him to pull Fischer in, to embrace him, to do __something__  other than to just stand beside him like a complete buffoon… but he can’t. There’s some gap between them that neither of them can bridge and which La Cour can’t put a name to, and so they instead hover awkwardly close to one another, saying nothing for a long while. Helene’s words echo in his memory.

 

“Thomas.”

 

The use of his given name startles him, but not quite so much as Fischer reaching up to frame his hands on both sides of his face. Without hesitation, Fischer pulls him forward, pressing his lips to La Cour’s forehead in a brief kiss before releasing him. La Cour stares dumbly back at him, blinking slowly.

 

“What was that for?” he asks.

 

“For this,” Fischer says.

 

Fischer has always had a mean right hook, but given that La Cour’s not expecting it, the other man’s fist colliding with his face feels more like a sledgehammer than flesh and bone. Before he knows it, he’s on the ground, dazedly watching as guards flood the room, pulling Fischer off of him as he spits threats and obscenities. There are guards helping him up and he knows full well that people will be watching. Gossip spreads like wildfire in prisons. He knows he’s got to play the part--which really isn’t all that hard, since that punch hurt like hell.

 

He doesn’t bother to wipe the blood away as he leaves the room, loudly stating that if Fischer doesn’t want to cooperate, he can go ahead and rot in this place for all he cares. He doesn’t dare look back.

 

* * *

 

  
Morning finds him in the rocking chair in Marie’s nursery, wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He touches the bruises on his wrist. He touches the spot on his forehead where Fischer had kissed him. There is blood on his shirt and an ache in his chest and he knows he can only remedy one of the two.

 

By the time he’s suitably cleaned himself up, Helene is already in the kitchen, sitting at the table as she feeds Marie her bottle. She doesn’t look up at him as he enters. He’s not ready for this conversation. No, not at all. But he’s been far too much of a coward already. He’s run away from so many things in his life and just when he’d thought he’d rid himself of that loathsome character trait, he discovers he’s simply managed to find another way to do it.

 

“Helene, I owe you an explanation,” he says.

 

She looks up at him. Her eyes are full of enough hurt to make him ill. But there’s not a shred of anger. Instead, he reads a sort of sad resignation in her face and wonders what that means for them.

 

“Yes, you do,” Helene agrees. He moves to sit at the table, and Helene rises. “Will you hold Marie while I fix some coffee?”

 

He takes their daughter into his arms with a quiet nod. She continues on with her bottle, emitting occasional happy little noises as La Cour strokes her hair. It’s much darker now than when she’d been born, closely matching the color of Helene’s.

 

“What did Fischer need last night?” Helene asks as she returns, placing a mug at his elbow as she sips from her own.

 

“We reached the point where my presence was beginning to draw suspicion onto him and we needed to set the scene for a grand falling out between us to dispel any notion that he may still be working with the police,” La Cour says, his tone professional.

 

“I assume that’s the reason for your black eye,” Helene remarks.

 

“Well, it had to be convincing,” La Cour answers.

 

“I’m sure,” she says. “Will he be alright without you for the remainder?”

 

“He’ll have to be,” La Cour says. “And if he isn’t, then my contacts will inform me and we’ll pull the plug on the whole operation.”

 

She nods, sipping again from her mug. “Will _you_  be alright without _him_?”

 

The question immediately puts him on his guard. Yet watching her sit across the table from him, he can’t detect any malice to the question. This is not an attack, merely a concerned inquiry. But still he feels shame pooling in his stomach. He’s committed no foul, and yet he feels like a husband caught sleeping with another woman by his wife.

 

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked me last night,” La Cour says instead. “I wasn’t sure what you meant by it. I thought… perhaps you meant I was spending too much time at work and not enough at home with you and Marie.”

 

He frowns down at his coffee mug. Marie tugs on one of his earlobes and he reaches up absently when her clever little fingers make a grab for his hair.

 

“But if that were the case, you wouldn’t have named Fischer specifically,” La Cour continues. “I couldn’t wrap my mind around what you were implying until I returned home. I’m not sure what you think Fischer is to me, but I made you a promise that I wouldn’t be leaving you and Marie. I love you, both of you, and that hasn’t and will not change.”

 

“Thomas,” Helene says, her tone patient. “I never accused you of those things. There’s no doubt in my mind that you love us. It’s just that you love Fischer, too. And I think it’s more than you’re willing to allow yourself to admit.”

 

La Cour feels like he’s been backed into a corner. Helene hasn’t been anything but calm and collected, but he feels the sudden need to defend himself.

 

“I’m not gay,” he says, perhaps a little too loudly.

 

“I never said you were,” Helene answers. “You don’t have to be gay to love another man.”

 

A twitter of nervous laughter escapes him. “That’s not…”

 

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Helene says raising a hand to stop him before he can get hysterical. “But I think we could benefit from… a little space.”

 

“You want to break up,” La Cour says flatly.

 

“A trial separation,” Helene corrects him. “I’m not trying to tell you how you feel. But I think it would be the best thing for both of us if you had some time to think things through. And right now… right now I think I need some space, too. Okay?”

 

“Okay,” he says. He can’t exactly say no, not when she tells him she needs this. “I’m sorry that I’ve made you feel this way.”

 

She shakes her head. “I just want what’s best for all of us.”

 

“I understand,” La Cour responds. He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now. If he’s being honest, on top of last night, it’s become to much emotion to deal with at once. It’s like a massive, tangled ball of string and he can’t figure out which thread to pull at first. “How long have you been thinking about all this?”

 

“...a while,” Helene admits. “I didn’t want to have to bring it up unless I was certain, but really, I think I just didn’t want to bring it up at all.”

 

“Then why last night?” he asks.

 

“I don’t know exactly,” Helene says with a sigh. She frowns and shakes her head, hands wrapped around her coffee mug. “When you were getting ready to leave, it was like all the little things I had been thinking and wondering about just suddenly fell together. And I felt that I’d just been sweeping it all under the rug all this time. If we didn’t address it, I knew it would just linger and fester and poison our relationship. Rather than that, I wanted to take control of it myself, even if it hurt to do so.”

 

He nods, but it’s just another knot in the ball of string. He scrubs a hand over his face. “I just can’t believe the reason we’re doing this is because you think I’m in love with Fischer.”

 

“Thomas, I’m trying to be as patient with this as I can,” Helene says. “I know you feel like I’m calling you out, but it’s hardly fun for me, either.”

 

“Then why are we doing it?” La Cour asks, frustrated. “I’ve just told you Fischer and I aren’t that way. Is there something else? Is there _someone_  else?”

 

Helene’s expression turns frigid. “Don’t try to turn this back on me.”

 

“Are you that surprised?” La Cour wants to know. “Fischer’s deep undercover, to the point where everyone who’s important to him has turned their back on him. He hasn’t seen his son in half a year. He’s in _prison_. You know this. And somehow… somehow you think my going to meet with him means I’m _in love_  with him?”

 

“It would be one thing if this case of yours was where my suspicions started,” Helene tells him with clear restraint. “But it wasn’t. This is something I’ve had to think about for a long time.”

 

“Then how long?”

 

Helene crosses her arms over her chest and purses her lips, staring down at the table. It’s clear she doesn’t want to have to say it, which leads La Cour to wonder just how long a period of time they’re talking about. She takes a deep breath and looks up at him.

 

“Since the case in Holbæk,” she says.

 

“What?” he sputters with an incredulous laugh.

 

“To be honest, watching you both while we worked, I thought you two were…”

 

“Fischer’s my _friend_ ,” he says, disbelief coloring his words.

 

But even as he says it, he thinks about last night, about that ache in his chest and his stomach in knots. He thinks about that feeling of needing to be closer and the unnameable distance between him and the man he called his best friend. He thinks about the fact that all these thoughts and feelings are not even remotely new to him. He promptly squashes them back down.

 

Helene has been watching him as he silently grappled with what she’s presenting him with. He knows he’s being unfair, in some regards. She’d said she needed this space as much for herself as she did for him. He draws in a shaky breath and distracts himself by brushing his fingers through Marie’s soft hair.

 

“Okay,” La Cour says. “Okay.”

 

Helene looks to him questioningly, as though to ask if he’s alright. He nods.

 

“So how are we going to do this?”

 

* * *

  

It does not take the greatest deductive mind in Denmark to know that something is amiss. Ingrid had noted that La Cour and Helene had arrived to Ulf’s retirement party in separate cars, but had brushed it off as one simply planning to leave sooner than the other. With Marie at home with the sitter, it made sense. However, when most of the company has filtered out--and those that remain continue to imbibe copious amounts of alcohol--she happens to catch sight of the pair at the doorway.

 

She wants to believe it’s the wine talking as she watches them and thinks there’s a certain distance between them. They speak quietly to one another and La Cour leans in to kiss Helene upon the cheek, but the action seems more polite than anything else. Helene in return smiles up at him, touching her hand to his arm fondly before she takes her leave.

 

“You’re thinking too much.”

 

Ingrid can’t keep the smile off her face at the sound of Jan’s voice behind her accompanied by his arms wrapping around her middle. She leans back into him.

 

“Oh, am I?” she replies.

 

“I know that look,” Jan hums, kissing her neck. “This is supposed to be a party, isn’t it?”

 

She bites back a laugh as his thumb traces the curve of her hip bone. “Jan, you’re drunk.”

 

“Yes, but then, so are you,” Jan points out sagely. “That’s the fun of it.”

 

She hums in agreement. Perhaps she really is thinking too much. It’s one of the perils of their work: you never quite know when to shut it all off. By this point she’s lost sight of La Cour, but she can’t shake the nagging feeling that something’s happened between him and Helene.

 

“Would you like to tell me about whatever it is that’s bothering you?” Jan offers.

 

She brings her hands to rest atop his, her thumbs brushing over his knuckles. “It’s likely nothing. And even if it’s something, it’s hardly my business.”

 

“But…?” Jan supplies.

 

“I think something happened between La Cour and Helene,” Ingrid answers.

 

“Would they have come together if something had?” Jan wonders, resting his chin on her shoulder. “They seemed perfectly fine the entire evening.”

 

“I haven’t seen Helene in nearly a year,” Ingrid is quick to argue. “And La Cour for nearly as long. That’s plenty of time for anything to happen.”

 

“That’s a fair point,” Jan agrees. He straightens up, clearing his throat as he pulls away from her. “And I know you won’t be satisfied until you get to the bottom of it. You’d best get your coat; I believe he’s wandered outdoors.”

 

* * *

  

Either Jan was paying better attention than she thought or he’s got some clairvoyant talent of his own, because outside is precisely where Ingrid finds La Cour. Specifically, she finds him in the back yard, sitting in one of the long-abandoned chairs by the lawn, his face turned up towards the night sky and apparently quite wrapped up in his own thoughts. It’s dark, the temperature just this side of unpleasantly cold, and at this distance she can only faintly make out the merry murmur of the party they’d left behind.

 

“Hi, La Cour,” she says in greeting.

 

He turns his head at her approach. “Hi, Ingrid.”

 

“Needed some fresh air?” Ingrid guesses, lowering herself into the chair beside his.

 

“Something like that,” La Cour agrees.

 

He holds a beer bottle between his knees, but judging by its fullness, she guesses he hasn’t been particularly concerned with the liquid contents. Instead, he rolls it between his palms distractedly, still gazing upward as though reading the stars.

 

“Things haven’t been the same since they disbanded us,” Ingrid says softly, pulling her coat tighter around herself. “The chance for all of us to work together again… It was the happiest I’d been at work in some time.”

 

“Yes, you’re right,” La Cour murmurs. The length of several heartbeats ticks by before he adds, “I missed you. All of you. Nothing quite feels right anymore.”

 

“It doesn’t, does it?” she agrees sadly. It _had_  been wonderful working together. But now that it was over, they’d have to go their separate ways again. For now, in any case. “And now with Johnny hurt and Fischer gone…”

 

To her surprise, La Cour huffs a laugh. “You know, Helene used to complain that I spent more time with Fischer than with her. It’s one of the reasons we split up.”

 

Ingrid feels a little embarrassed at having been caught so easily. La Cour doesn’t look at her, but instead gazes down at the bottle in his hands. There’s a small, sad smile on his face as he traces the label with his thumb.

 

“That’s what you wanted to ask, isn’t it?” he asks her.

 

“I didn’t want to pry,” Ingrid replies, “but yes. Something seemed different than I remembered and I wanted to be sure you were both alright.”

 

La Cour nods his head, but doesn’t answer. Ingrid had gotten her answer, but in spite of that, she feels there’s more to be said. For both of them.

 

“You seemed very amicable with one another,” she points out. “When did…?”

 

“Four months ago,” La Cour supplies. “We’d been working that case, Fischer and I, for eight months. And one night, I got a call saying that Fischer needed to speak with me at the prison right away and Helene asked me… if I preferred it when I was with Fischer or when I was with her. I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t know what I might have said.”

 

“Then what was it that you did?” Ingrid wonders.

 

“I left,” La Cour says quietly. “To meet with Fischer. And that was… answer enough, I suppose. She was angry, at first. Hurt. She had every right to be. But when we began talking, she said she knew all along that there were certain things… things about how I felt about Fischer… that I needed to figure out. She just didn’t _want_  to know. And neither did I. I believe we both honestly thought it could just be put aside. We were happy together, we both adore Marie…”

 

“You both thought you could make it work. There’s nothing wrong with that,” Ingrid says. “And to have handled that so gracefully… Helene is a good woman.”

 

“She is. A better woman than I deserved,” La Cour agrees.

 

“That doesn’t make you a bad man,” Ingrid reasons.

 

His tight, answering smile tells her he disagrees, but she doesn’t press the issue. He glances over at her, his expression curious.

 

“You don’t seem surprised by any of this,” he observes.

 

“Well,” Ingrid says, clearing her throat. “I suppose I always looked at you two and thought ‘In another time and another place.’”

 

“It’s beginning to become a bit embarrassing that I’m apparently the last to know,” La Cour says dryly, smiling at her despite this.

 

Ingrid smiles back at him and shifts in her seat. “Does Fischer know?”

 

La Cour shakes his head. Again he laughs, the sound lacking any humor. “You know, the truly ironic part is that for all this time we worked on this undercover case, Fischer and I barely saw each other. Working this case with all of you was the most I've seen of him in months. But then Palsby... and I didn't even see him to the airport.”

 

“You should tell him,” Ingrid says. “Call him. Write him. Or go to him, if you can. At this point, you hardly stand to lose anything.”

 

He doesn’t answer. She can see his hands shaking now, but knows it has little to do with the cold.

 

“Ingrid,” he says hoarsely. “Seeing him sent away for three years has been difficult enough. If I were to lose his friendship because of…” He clears his throat. “So long as he’s able to come home, I’ll be satisfied with that much.”

 

Ingrid can’t help but feel a little flabbergasted. La Cour, easily the most observant of them all, has somehow managed to overlook what’s been right in front of him all this time. Or at least it seems that way to her.

 

She’s not sure La Cour ever found out just how torn up Fischer had been when he'd had been accused of murder. It was fair to say Fischer was a heavy smoker, but she swore there was a constant cloud surrounding him at that time. She’s not sure he ever slept, considering Gaby told her he’d spent the nights furiously tearing through files and evidence catalogs, looking for something that would clear their colleague’s name.

 

Even once La Cour _had_  been cleared, he’d been sent away by Ulf--for his own well-being of course. But even if Fischer knew that, he was hardly happy about it. More than once she’d caught him beginning to call someone, only to hang up and angrily berate himself. He would ask if any of them had heard from La Cour, how he as doing… but never seemed to be able to make the call himself. Ingrid knew he had other things going on his life that could have caused his gloomy mood, but she found it rather telling that his irritable, tense demeanor cleared up the moment La Cour returned.

 

That’s not even touching on the way they act around one another. She thinks again to when La Cour had returned and how the two of them were practically _giddy_  around each other. And yet there was still that strange level of restraint. Small touches like a pat on the arm or on the head (she’s not sure Fischer will ever recover from La Cour joking about his hair) were always surrounded by this strange energy of something being held back. Like both of them wanted more but prevented themselves from seeking it out because… well, she didn’t really know.

 

“Thomas,” Ingrid says earnestly. “Fischer could never hate you.”

 

La Cour only nods. He clears his throat and rises suddenly from his seat. “Well, that’s enough of that. We’re supposed to be celebrating, aren’t we? And I’m sure Boysen is missing you by now.”

 

Ingrid knows that’s La Cour’s cue for being done with the conversation. So she shakes her head with a smile, taking his hand as he reaches out to help her up… only to withdraw it with a startled yelp.

 

“Ugh! Your hands are freezing!” she complains, ducking further inside her coat.

 

“I never said they were warm,” La Cour states simply.

 

She smacks him in the arm. “What were you thinking, coming out here without a coat? You’re going to catch your death out here! Get inside. Go. Now.”

 

“Yes, yes, yes, I’m going,” La Cour says, arms raised in surrender.

 

She can’t help but feel a little smug when he catches the flu a week later. But unbeknownst to her, her advice doesn’t go unheeded.


	2. scared to be lonely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> La Cour writes an email. To his surprise, he gets one back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and say hello to my little oddball nao  
> she's a little bundle of foil for the two dopes in love

It starts with a single email.

It's been two weeks since Fischer had been deported and, thinking this may have been enough time to settle into his new surroundings, La Cour is practically desperate to hear from him. He knows a letter or a phone call is out of the question, and god only knows if he'll ever be able to visit him in person. He thinks of Fischer's email, but wonders if he even checks it now. Maybe he's not _allowed_  to do that either. Europol had been very clear that he wasn't to contact anyone from what they called his 'old life.' 

Not knowing if his message will even reach the man he's writing it for, he boots up his laptop.

 

* * *

 

_28 march 2004  
__02:00_ _hours  
_**To:**  a.fischer@ dmail.dk  
**From:**  t.lacour@dmail.dk

 

**Subj:** Checking In

 

Fischer,

 

This email should have come sooner, but I wanted to see how you're doing. We didn't give you very much of a send off, I'm afraid. Then again, maybe a send off to a place you don't actually care to be sent to would have been inappropriate.

In any case, I hope you've been able to settle in and that your injuries are healing. You may or may not have had a chance to read Trine’s latest article. With any luck, the repercussions will be the first in a series to steps towards bringing you home.

I spoke with Mille and Victor over the phone on Tuesday. Both are doing quite well. Needless to say, Mille is still displeased with our choices regarding the case. She hopes to bring Victor to see you at some point in the future, should it be allowed. Hopefully the rest of us can do the same. Frankly, I’m not certain even this email will reach you.

Be sure to take care of yourself.

 

Regards,

La Cour

 

* * *

 

_29 march 2004_  
_13:56_ _hours_  
**To:** t.lacour@dmail.dk  
**From:** a.fischer@dmail.dk

 

**Subj:** RE: Checking In

 

La Cour,

 

Do you have to be so damned formal? It's an email. You don't need any of that ‘regards’ business at the end. And what are you doing writing me an email at 2am? Can’t sleep?

I've settled in here as much as I ever will. They set you up pretty quickly with a new identity and work and the like. The apartment’s fine, the work is dull and my name is supposed to be Lucas Andersen now. I’m not supposed to speak a word of Danish either; it's all English here. I’m not supposed to have any sort of contact with any of you, but Palsby can kiss my ass if he thinks I’ll just sit here for three years twiddling my thumbs.

How’s Johnny? When I left he was supposed to have that operation, but I haven’t been able to get any sort of update. The way things happened… It shouldn’t have. He wasn’t supposed to be in that kind of danger. Is Gaby alright? I know she can’t be. I meant it more like… will they be alright do you think? Someday?

I think maybe it’s good I’ve had to go away. But even saying that, I’d give anything to be home. I know this email’s been all over the place, but it really is good to hear from you, even if it’s just like this. You were brilliant, by the way, through the whole thing. You should know that. What happened with Johnny was on me. You were right about wanting to call it off and I didn’t listen to you. I regret that I didn’t.

But since I can’t change anything now, I’ll just have to say I hope to hear from you again soon.

 

\- Fischer

 

* * *

 

La Cour frowns as he sits at his desk, reading the email. He’d been worried, of course, that Fischer would have some unpleasant things to deal with when this case was over, but now that he’s been sent to The Hague, La Cour’s concern had doubled. Far away from friends and family, he’d have no real support network of any kind. The melancholic tone rings through clear in Fischer’s email and La Cour wonders just what kind of beating his mental health has taken throughout all of this.

“My, my, and here I thought that gentleman from Europol forbade us from contacting Fischer.”

La Cour startles at the words, slamming his laptop shut and twisting in his chair to face the woman who’d made the comment. Naoko Frisk has been working with him and Fischer since Unit One had been disbanded. A demure, dark haired woman of mixed Danish and Japanese heritage, she’d been trying to claw her way out of Fraud and into Homicide for years and finally managed to do so, just as Unit One was wiped off the map (much to her chagrin). La Cour had followed her career in the vague sense that one often does when working in the same business, but had taken a keener interest once he began having visions.

Frisk was known in many circles for her impressive memory, particularly when it came to minute details, making her a near invaluable asset in the Fraud department. Helene had been the one to mention her when once discussing La Cour's visions with him, having met Frisk during a case once before. She'd thrown around terms such as 'hyperthymesia' and 'photographic memory' but what it had all boiled down to was that there were things about the mind they simply did not yet understand. It had helped, somewhat, to ease his worry about his own... gift.

On her part, Frisk had been excited at the chance to work with them, having followed their careers for some time as well. She’d proven to be a valuable addition to Fischer and La Cour’s twosome since then, though a recent hospitalization due to pneumonia had kept her away for the past three weeks.

“Frisk. I wasn’t expecting you back for another two days,” La Cour says. “You look well.”

Frisk hands him a cup of coffee. “You’re a terrible liar, La Cour. How is he?”

La Cour shifts in his seat, choosing to sip at his coffee rather than answer. Frisk doesn’t seem altogether phased by this as she takes a seat at her own desk.

“I’m not looking to turn you in,” she informs him. “I was trying to be funny.”

Fischer had once remarked that Frisk came from the same vein of ‘odd’ that La Cour himself did. But even La Cour sometimes has difficulty grasping her sense of humor. Still, he realizes she means well. He checks to be sure no one is in earshot, and that the door to their shared office closed.

“In all honesty, he sounds depressed,” La Cour remarks. “And that’s just from what I can read in an email. Undoubtedly, it’s even worse than that.”

“Well, no one would be surprised,” Frisk says. “Not after having it all end that way. I should have been there to see it through to the end.”

“Yes, you would have been a fine help wheezing and coughing your way through a crime scene,” La Cour says flatly.

She clucks her tongue at him. “Never-the-less…"

La Cour folds his arms across his chest. “The way Palsby handled it doesn’t sit well with me.”

“What do you expect? He’s a politician,” Frisk says, fingers dancing across the keys of her computer. “It's the natural order of advancement.”

“Mm,” La Cour hums in agreement, opening his laptop back up. “But something else about it feels… off. It felt far more personal than that.”

That gets Frisk’s attention. She looks up, fingers stilled over the keys. “You think Fischer was set up?”

“I don’t have any concrete proof,” La Cour admits. “It’s just a feeling.”

“Well,” Frisk replies. “Your ‘feelings’ have a habit of being correct, don’t they?”

La Cour merely shrugs as the two of them return to their work. She’s not wrong. But supposing he’s right, just what would he even do with that information? For now, with all of them scattered--some of them further than others--he knows his only choice is to simply continue on as he’s been doing and wait for something tangible to come his way.

 

 

* * *

  

  
_02 april 2004_  
18:31 hours  
**To:** a.fischer@dmail.dk  
**From:** t.lacour@dmail.dk

 

**Subject:**  RE:RE: Checking In

 

Fischer,

I don’t see what’s wrong with ‘regards.’ It’s not as formal as you seem to think it is. I was writing you at that time because I had a bout of the flu and, as you guessed, couldn’t sleep. I wrote it not really thinking you’d even see it. I was sure they would be monitoring your internet activity and cut your access to something like a personal email account.

Surely working with Europol can't be all that dull, can it? Perhaps if you give it some time you'll find it more interesting. They don't know you there the way we do, but I'm sure once they realize your talent they'll send something your way that's more your speed. As far as language, well, that's unfortunate, but I've always found your English to be very good. Even still… As glad as I am that you replied, I hope you’re not taking any unnecessary risks to do so.

As far as Gaby and Johnny... The operation went well. He's regained the use of his upper body, but will require physical therapy regardless. He's still hopeful he'll be able to walk again, in time. What happened to Johnny was as much my fault as it was yours. More-so. I should have taken more precautions. I saw it happening before it happened and I still wasn't able to prevent it. Both of you suffered because of it. I feel like I should be doing something to help Johnny and Gaby, but I'm not sure what.

But Fischer, no one thinks it's _good_ that you went away. None of us would ever say that we were glad or that we thought you deserved it. The only good thing about it is that it means you're out of their company. It was the reason I'd wanted to pull you back then; I thought you'd been in too long, gone too deep. It's not as though undercover work is unheard of, but the extent to which you had to go was unhealthy. It got us what we needed to bring the case to trial, but I've struggled to decide whether or bot it was worth it. We do everything we can to close a case, to bring some sense of justice or relief to grieving families, but how much can you really ask of a single man?

I never regret clearing a case. It's the road to getting there that stays with me. I worried then that you were in too deep and I worry now that you've been pushed too far. Having more or less acted as your handler this past year, I feel like I've had a limb cut off. I still don't know what I can do to bring you home or to help Johnny and Gaby or to put our team back together. But I'll find a way, somehow. I owe you at least that much. It's not the same here without you and you deserve to go back to your life, your family. In the meantime, it's a paltry offer, but whenever you need to talk, I'm available. I hope you'll keep that in mind.

Yours,  
La Cour 

 

* * *

 

_05april2004_  
_01:19_ _hours_  
**To:** t.lacour@dmail.dk  
**From:** a.fischer@dmail.dk

 

**Subject:**  RE:RE:RE: Checking In

 

You see, there you go again. It's not which sign off you use, it's the fact that you use one at all. "Regards," "Yours"... It's all the same. You make it sound as though I should be expecting a letter from a courier on horseback. And you made fun of _me_ for being old fashioned! But if you have to use one, "Yours" isn't a bad choice. You're _my_ partner, after all. And make sure Frisk knows it. Just because I'm gone for a little doesn't mean she gets to edge in on my territory; I saw you first.

As far as what they will and won't allow me to do, phone calls and in-person meetings are out. But apparently they thought as much as I did in that bikers aren't going to be able to trace my emails. And maybe the work here isn't dull, but it's not with our team. The cases don't feel the same. I started thinking though, with how long I might be here... You know, Mille was seeing someone else. I met him once or twice. He's not a bad guy. He cares for Mille and Victor and he doesn't care for Victor just because he cares for Mille. But I worry sometimes, if I won't come back and find that _he's_  the one Victor's calling 'dad.' Maybe I'm stupid to think that. I don't know. It's just these are the years that help shape kids into who they'll be and where am I through all of it? 

However you feel about it, I think it might be good for Gaby and Johnny that I'm gone for a while. If I were them, I'm not sure how I'd be able to see my face around. She was happy again. After all the shit she's been through, Gaby was finally happy again and I managed to find yet another way to fuck that up for her. Johnny's not going to walk again. He won't be able to play soccer with his fucking kid. So I think it's better that they don't have to see me for a while. I'm not sure how I'll ever be able to look either of them in the eye again anyway.

You shouldn't feel guilty. I already told you, I'm the one that pushed to keep going when you wanted to stop. And stop worrying about me, okay? I was fine with the cost as long as I was the only one paying it and as long as we got what we needed to put the right guy away for that woman's murder. No one should get away with that. Her family deserved closure.

But let's stop talking about this. I've already burned through a pack of cigarettes just thinking about it. How're Helene and my beautiful baby goddaughter? You never mentioned anything like marriage; is that just not in the cards for you two? Might not be such a bad thing. Marriage is fine and all, but it's a lot less messy when you're not hitched and you decide to split. Not that you will, it's just easier overall, I think. Let me know if any interesting cases come your way. I could use something to make me think. And like I said, remind Frisk that if she thinks she's going to woo you away while I'm gone, I'll find a way to get her shipped back to Fraud so fast her head will spin.

\- Fischer 

 

* * *

 

"You seem distracted."

La Cour jerks back to reality at the mild intonation, his eyes flying open as his concentration is broken. The first thing to greet his sight is the underside of the bed frame, as he'd positioned himself where the body had been laid in order to read the crime scene. He turns his head to the right and is greeted by the sight of Frisk, lying on her right side upon the floor, her short, dark hair falling across her forehead as she watches him. He blinks slowly and inhales a measured breath, turning his head to look upward once more in the narrow space beneath the bed.

"What makes you say that?" he asks.

"You haven't said a word since we've been here," she answers.

"I've been trying to get a feel for the scene," he says. "Why is that unusual?"

"Because you always talk to yourself when you're reading a scene," Frisk reasons. "You know, with the 'I do this. I do that. But I don't do this.' That whole thing."

"And you believe that since I haven't done that... that I'm distracted," he repeats.

"Yes."

La Cour turns his head to meet her gaze once more. She stares back with that same, impassive gaze she always seems to wear when she makes an observation. Well, no, impassive isn't quite right. There's a curiosity there, but little else. He almost wants to laugh at the fact that the two of them are here, lying on the floor of a crime scene, having a chat as though there's nothing at all unusual about what they're doing.

"I'm not distracted," he assures her. "I just have some things on my mind."

"That's what being distracted _is_ , La Cour," she says with a huff of laughter and a small, but genuinely amused smile. "What's troubling you?"

"Nothing," La Cour lies. He feels the weakness of the word even as it leaves his lips. "Just... some things."

"Mm," Frisk hums. 

"Don't concern yourself with it," he says. "I've got my head in the game, I promise."

She watches him silently for a time, the absence of an answer hanging between them in the silence of the room. He can hear the house settling around them, creaking gently as the wind howls outside like a ghost of March. Patches of sunlight shift and flicker, trading spaces with shadows on the floor as it filters in between the swaying tree branches outside the window. There's something strangely comforting in it all, quietly lying here with her eyes staring back at him like dark, glittering pools of night. And yet there's a restlessness in his heart that will allow him no peace.

"Okay," she says at last, the simple response seeming rather anticlimactic to him. The woman shifts and begins to rise. "I'm taking a look in the attic. Let me know if you need me for anything."

He listens to the sound of her retreating footsteps, staring up at the underside of the bed frame. Alone with his thoughts, he feels they've never been quite so unreasonably loud before now. Taking a deep breath, he draws his focus, pushing the nagging thoughts aside.

"I lie on the floor. I can't move, but I'm not dead..." 

 

* * *

 

Frisk flicks the clasps on her briefcase closed, securing the lock before she reaches for her coat from the back of her chair. Across the room, La Cour shrugs unto his long overcoat, looking worn, but pleased with the resolution of their latest case.

"That was amazing work you did, La Cour," she compliments him. "You should be proud."

"Thanks," he says, adjusting the collar of his coat. "And likewise."

He grabs his own briefcase and they cut the lights and lock the door behind them. They walk past empty desks, most of the work force having left for the day and the skeleton crew having taken their place. It's a silent walk down the stairwell and out to the car park  but not uncomfortably so. La Cour is certain Frisk is every bit as tired as he feels, as much as the victory had done to boost their spirits. A few empty spaces separate their cars and he watches her raise a hand in farewell as she turns towards hers.

"Frisk?" he calls out before he can stop himself.

She pauses, turns to look to him expectantly.

"I was wondering," he begins, "if maybe you'd want to go..."

The words die on his tongue. He'd wanted to see if she'd be interested in grabbing a celebratory drink, but... he knows better. Every time he or Fischer had offered since they'd begun working together, she'd politely declined, leaving the two of them to themselves. He feels a sudden ache of longing; for Fischer, for his team.

"Never mind," he says, shaking his head with a crooked smile. "Forget I said anything."

"Where would you like to go?"

He feels his eyebrows rise nearly to his hairline in surprise. She shrugs, rubbing the back of her neck.

"I've never done one of these. Though, I'm aware it's customary," Frisk admits. "I always passed it up when I was a young officer and it just became habit. So if you don't mind showing me how the whole thing's done, then, sure. Let's go."

He nearly wants to laugh. She wears uncertainty like a suit several sizes too large; it rests on her shoulders awkwardly. It's actually almost refreshing to see in a person who seems to be a model of composure at all times. He does laugh then and finds she smiles back at him.

"Never too late to learn." 

 

* * *

 

The alcohol buzzes pleasantly through her system as their conversation carries on. Frisk finds she really quite enjoys this, just sitting and talking outside of work. La Cour is a different sort of person with his cheeks pleasantly flushed and his smile broad as he recounts for her something-or-other that he and Fischer had gotten themselves into. But there's a reason she'd agreed to come out with him tonight when she'd refused all times before. It had a great deal to do with the man La Cour was currently talking about.

"You know, he actually told me to remind you that I was his partner, not yours," La Cour says with a chuckle. "Said if you tried to take his place while he was gone, he'd have you shipped back to Fraud so quick your head would spin."

"First of all: he can have you. I'm only interested in the two of you as a pair," Frisk responds, jabbing her pointer finger at the table to punctuate her words. "Second: I'd love to see him fucking try to get me sent back to Fraud. And third: he can kiss my ass. Tell him that the next time you write him."

"I'll be sure to," La Cour says, clinking his glass against hers.

When she'd told him she was only interested in the two of them as a pair, she'd been telling the truth. Though, she feels she may not have been clear on that point. She gets along with either of them just fine, appreciates both of them as individuals, but she's found over the past year that the two of them without each other presents a different story. When La Cour was absent, Fischer grew biting and agitated, like a tightly wound coil. When Fischer was absent, she found La Cour withdrawn and wistful. The thing of it was, until now, they had been minor absences; typically due to health or family matters. Now, though, with Fischer having been gone some time and gone for the foreseeable future, Frisk finds that La Cour continues to sink further into that melancholic state.

It worries her. She knows it would worry Fischer. She has no intention of trying to squeeze herself into the impetuous inspector's place in his absence (not that she could even if she tried), but she feels that La Cour may need a friend now more than he'd feel comfortable admitting.

"So," Frisk says, lazily watching the bubbles rise in her beer, "are you going to tell me what 'things' were on your mind during this case?"

La Cour frowns slowly before sipping his own beer, swiping with his thumb at the foam left behind on his upper lip. He wears an expression that tells her he's not quite sure if he cares for the sudden change in topic. Well, he may not care for it, but she's fair to certain that he needs to talk about it to someone. Whether or not she fits the bill remains to be seen.

"It's nothing really. Just a few issues I'm working through," he says eventually.

"Well, perhaps you could use a second opinion on some of them," she reasons.

He scratches his chin, considering the offer. Frisk knows what she's just put on the table. Like herself, she knows La Cour to be a private man, reserved when it comes to forming relationships and opening up to other people. But perhaps it was always going to come to this. Perhaps she's spent too long without it and perhaps he's become so suddenly used to it that going back to how he was before feels suffocating.

"Why the sudden interest in my personal life?" he asks.

"Because your personal life suddenly became of interest," she replies.

"You do realize that parroting back at me like that isn't an answer."

"Isn't it?"

He shakes his head at her, finishing his drink and signaling for another for both of them. "You must have driven your parents crazy."

"You're speaking in past tense," Frisk says, draining her glass and placing it beside his, "as though I stopped."

"Fair point," La Cour concedes. "But really... what's this sudden change?"

She shrugs a shoulder, dragging the tip of her finger through the ring of condensation left on the table. "What made you change around Unit One?"

He gives her a look and she has the decency to look apologetic; he's just pointed out how she turned questions back on the one asking them and here she is doing it again. Well, it's not like she's doing it on purpose.

"Sometimes you just find people who make you feel... different. Don't you think?" Frisk says. She nods in thanks as a fresh beer is placed in front of either of them. "I like you and Fischer. You're different. I've been alone for a long time, but I've never been lonely. I don't consider myself cold exactly, I've just never been especially concerned with the details of my co-worker's lives. But after we began working together, I found myself wondering what you were thinking or feeling. I would look forward to Fischer's new pictures of Victor or when Marie had done something new you hadn't seen before. And I know Fischer's absence has... hurt you."

The dark haired woman pauses, distracting herself by taking several long pulls from her glass. She can feel La Cour's eyes on her. He hasn't touched his drink.

"I was worried," she says in summation. "I think of you as a friend."

He studies her for a long while, sitting quietly opposite her. She wonders if this is what people feel when she looks at them. Often times she's been told her stare can be unnerving. La Cour's soft brown eyes leave her feeling stripped down in a way she's not used to and she fidgets in her seat.

"You know, I don't really know anything about you," he says at last, looking somewhat surprised by that fact.

"Not through any fault of yours," she admits.

"Yet you think of us as friends," he reiterates.

"You think it's odd."

"No," La Cour says lightly, "but maybe you could let me get to know you."

"Alright. How about we save that for next time?" she suggests with a small smile. Because she really did want there to be a next time. "Tonight, I want you to talk about what's on your mind." 

 

* * *

 

Perhaps it's in part due to the alcohol, perhaps he really does just need someone to talk to, but he finds once he starts talking--about Fischer, about Helene and Marie, about the team, about all of it--he couldn't stop if he wanted to. Dark eyes watch him patiently as he rids himself of this great emotional weight that's been pressing down on him for so long. Like a glass collecting rainwater, it had slowly grown full, and the relief of pouring some of it out is greater than he can describe.

"I'm not sure what to tell him," La Cour admits.

The patrons are filing out, barstools are being upturned onto freshly scrubbed counter tops  lights are going out. Frisk leans on the tabletop, watching him through half-lidded eyes, her chin resting in the palm of her hand. His head feels fuzzy, the lids of his eyes growing unbearably heavy.

"Because you don't want to lie," she murmurs. "But you don't want to tell him the truth either."

"Right. That," he agrees. He catches the signal from the bartender. "But we have to go."

"I'll settle the tab," Frisk declares, in the loud sort of voice of someone who's too inebriated to tell how loud they're really being. "You call for a taxi."

A taxi. The thought of getting home hadn't even crossed his mind until now. Clearly neither of them are in any state to be driving though, so a taxi it is. He makes arrangements and then stands beneath the awning outside the bar as the lights go out, waiting for Frisk to join him. It had begun raining at some point and he shrugs further into his coat as a bitter April wind whips freezing rainwater at him.

Frisk hadn't seemed in the least bit surprised as he'd haltingly admitted his feelings for Fischer at a near whisper, for fear of being overheard. Well, either that or she had an unbeatable pokerface which, frankly, was just as likely a possibility. But she'd surprised him then, reminding him of her own peculiar talent. Too often, she'd told him, people would notice the little things, only to forget them, failing to draw the connection to the larger picture. But not her. She remembered every word, every fleeting glance  every brush of the fingers, every subtle touch... To Frisk, it was obvious. He feels a flush that has nothing to do with alcohol creeping up his chest as he recalls the way she'd painted a vivid picture of what would be a storied romance were it being told about any other two people. But he couldn't bring himself to believe she was seeing things clearly. Surely Fischer couldn't...

The chiming of a bell and the slam of a door announces Frisk's presence. She leans back against the wall beside him, looking ready to drop onto the next flat surface that presented itself. Frankly, that didn't sound so bad to him either.

"You could tell him it just didn't work out," Frisk says suddenly.

"He'll ask me to elaborate," La Cour counters. "You know Fischer won't be satisfied with that kind of answer."

"Then elaborate. Tell him you just... realized you two weren't meant for a romantic relationship, parted ways and are still good friends. Tell him Helene is wonderful and you will always love her, but you're just not _in_  love with her and she realized it before you did," Frisk says, trying to talk over the din of the storm. "Because all that's true, so you're not lying, you're just not telling the whole truth. Right?"

"I suppose," La Cour admits. "For now it's better than anything else I'd thought up so--"

He's cut off as a passing car hits a deep puddle at just the right angle, spraying the two of them with an unwelcome bath of cold, dirty water. A high pitched yelp of despair comes from his right and in an instant, they're both soaked through.

"Fuck!" he curses, spitting rainwater from his mouth as Frisk splutters and pushes sopping wet bangs from her eyes. 

It really would be his luck, La Cour thinks, pushing his own soaked hair back from his face. He curses out the driver, but can't exactly do anything about it, and so his expletives gradually peter out as he resumes the wait for their cab, arms folded tightly over his chest. The two of them are quiet now, the cold water providing an uncomfortable shock to both their systems. Glancing to the side, he eventually notices Frisk shivering, teeth chattering loudly as they huddle beneath the awning. Without thinking, he strips his coat off and deposits it on her shoulders.

Typically, this would be a kind gesture. But given the fact that his coat is no drier than she is, it does little other than to render her an impromptu coat rack. As realization dawns on him, a trickle of laughter escapes him. Before long he's doubled over, hands on his knees, both of them shaking with laughter instead of cold. He can't remember the last time he'd laughed like this, loud and bordering on hysterical. Safe to say, he's never heard Frisk laugh this way. The whole thing is ridiculous. All of it. And he laughs harder at the realization that he'd spent the night drinking himself stupid and spilling his innermost thoughts to a co-worker he's worked with for a year and knows nothing about. Oh, if Fischer were only here to see this. He'd probably laugh louder than either of them.

Eventually their laughter dies down to the occasional giggle as exhaustion settles in. Just as he's beginning to consider hypothermia a very real possibility, their taxi pulls up and the two of them move as quickly as they can in their inebriated state to clamber inside. La Cour tells the driver to make for Frisk's address first, deciding he'd like to see for himself that she gets home safely. They find themselves huddled together in the backseat, the hum of the car in motion doing them no favors in their effort to remain awake. More than once La Cour's eyes drift closed before a bump in the road startles him awake. But he's sure he'll fall asleep before they reach their destination at this rate.

"What is it like?" he asks suddenly. He receives no answer. He nudges his companion with his shoulder. "Frisk?"

"Hm?" Frisk hums, heat tilted back and eyes shut.

"Remembering everything. What's it like?" La Cour elaborates.

"It's alright, I suppose," she mumbles. "It can be useful. But it can be a bother, too. I've learned how to adapt to it over the course of my life, but no matter what I do, sometimes I just don't have a choice whether I want to remember something or not. I just see or hear or smell something and it triggers a memory. I can't control it or make it stop. It makes the good things very good. And the bad things very bad."

"And there've been very bad things?"

"...mm."

"Sorry."

She shrugs. "Everyone has very bad things."

"Yes," he says quietly.

She turns her head to look at him, sleepy eyes cracking open to peer at him. "What about your visions?"

"I suppose... it's about the same," he says thoughtfully. "Usually they help in the grand scheme of things they just..."

"Take so much out of you?" she guesses.

"Among other things," he agrees.

From the very beginning, his visions had come with a physical toll. But as the strange ability grew, strengthened, he found himself more effected as a consequence. The clearer the vision, the more it seemed to draw from him. Worse yet, he had no way of controlling it. Predicting when one might come upon him was a near impossibility. Typically he got little more than a few moments' warning; the prickle of hairs at the back of his neck, sweating palms, a sinking sensation in his gut, the taste of copper at the back of his mouth. The revelations that came from them were invaluable, but he despised the vulnerability that came with it.

"Have you had any about Fischer?"

The question catches him off guard, despite the fact that Fischer had been the topic of conversation for much of the night. He frowns to himself.

"Sort of," he says slowly. "Maybe. I'm... well. Maybe not."

"Is that a 'yes' or 'no'?" Frisk asks, stifling a yawn.

"I'm not sure," La Cour admits. "Sometimes... Sometimes they come to me in dreams. It can make it difficult to tell what's just a dream and what's something more."

"So you dreamed of him," she says.

La Cour clears his throat, fingers clutching compulsively where they rest upon his knees. It doesn't sound very good when put that way, but it's not wrong. Frisk's gaze seems to lack the judgment he'd been expecting, however, and she simply waits for an explanation. He offers none.

"You don't have to talk about it," she says, waving the topic away.

"It's never been anything... _improper_ ," La Cour says under his breath.

"You don't have to explain either," Frisk assures him as the taxi begins to come to a stop. She nods toward a worn looking, gated-in building to their right. "This one's mine. Do me a favor and text me when you get to yours, so I know you've gotten home safe?"

"I will," he agrees with a faint smile. "And thank you."

She merely ducks her head in acknowledgment as she climbs out of the taxi and into the pouring rain. "I'll see you at work."

La Cour waves as she hurries towards the front steps of her home, rain pelting down upon her small frame. The taxi has begun to pull away just as she slips in the front door. He settles back into his seat, somehow feeling even more tired now than he had before. He knows he's dozed off, because they arrive at his destination in what feels like between blinks. Settling the fare, he moves quickly to get inside, suddenly thinking of Frisk's recent hospitalization with pneumonia and his own bout of flu and deciding this has probably not been very good for either of them.

Pulling his cell phone from his pocket, he squints at the screen as he types out a simple "home safe gn  and drags himself towards his bedroom without bothering to see if there's a reply or not. Ideally, he would take a hot shower before bed, but as bone-tired as he finds himself, it's as much as he can manage to peel off his soaked clothes in favor of something dry to sleep in. He climbs into bed, glad he hadn't changed out his winter bedding just yet, and is out before his head hits the pillow.


	3. runners and fighters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes we say things we don't mean. Sometimes we don't say things we mean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some naughty bits in here~  
> what can i say? fischer's a naughty boy. :3a

_13april2004  
_ _12:49 hours_  
 **To:**  a.fischer@dmail.dk  
 **From:**  t.lacour@dmail.dk

 

**Subject:**  Hangovers

 

Fischer,

You're probably wondering about that subject line. Would you believe me if I told you that Frisk finally accepted an offer to go out for drinks after a case? I wouldn't believe it myself if it hadn't happened right in front of me. Although, it may have just been out of pity, as she believes I'm lonely without you here. Regardless, she was terribly hungover the next day (and seemingly irritated that I wasn't). So as soon as you're able to return, I propose we go out for drinks because it was a sight I was sure you, in all your schadenfreudian nature, would be thrilled to see. Oh, and before I forget, she wanted you to know that in regards to your message, she has this to say: "I'd like to see him fucking try to get me transferred and he can kiss my ass." Her words, not mine.

Marie and Helene are both well. Marie still hasn't said her first words yet. Helene's somewhat worried by this, though I told her that I didn't speak until I was three, according to my mother. Still, it's something we're keeping an eye on none-the-less. Apart from that, the doctor agrees she's developing just fine. Her hair is starting to curl around her ears now in the cutest way--I'll have to see if I can attach a picture to the next email. 

As far as Helene and myself, well, how do I put it? The answer is both terribly simple and infinitely complicated. Admittedly, my response to you was delayed in part because I was having difficulty coming up with an answer to your questions. But the simplest way to put it is that Helene and I are no longer together. It was nothing scandalous; she didn't cheat on me and I didn't run out on her. We just both reached a conclusion that a romantic relationship was not the kind we were meant to have, in the long run. I still do love her very much... I'm just not _in_  love with her if that makes any sense. Thankfully our platonic relationship hasn't really suffered from this. In fact, I'd go as far as to say it's better, once we'd gotten past the initial awkwardness of it all. She just recently mentioned to me that there's someone she's been seeing and, strange as it is to say, I'm happy for her. Isn't that odd? Being so happy that the mother of my child has found someone else? But it's true, however strange it may be. I still see Marie on the weekends and sometimes a few days in between, depending on our schedules. Once she's a little older, Helene and I are planning on shifting to a weekly schedule and perhaps a bi-weekly one if it goes smoothly. But that's still a long ways off...

I know I'm the only one in contact with you currently, but I've been giving that some thought. Would you be interested in using me as a go-between for you and Viktor  I can bring him any messages you have for him and then type up anything he wants to write back? Although considering he's got a rebellious streak as wide as his father's, I could just scan whatever he 'writes' himself and provide a rough translation. Are you talking to anyone there? Co-workers? Neighbors? The girl at the coffee shop? I know it's not where you want to be, but if you have to be there, I hope you try to make the best of it. Isolating yourself isn't healthy, especially not after everything you've been through. Are you well? I know you said your injuries are healing fine, but I still wonder if you're not just saying that. I hope that's not the case. Are you having difficulty sleeping still? Lemon chamomile tea with honey sometimes helps me, if you are.

Be well, and let me know about Viktor.

 

Yours,  
La Cour

 

* * *

 

_21april2004  
_ _02:14 hours_  
 **To:**  t.lacour@dmail.dk  
 **From:**  a.fischer@dmail.dk

 

**Subject:**  [Blank]

 

Make the best of it? Seriously? Why don't you tell me just what I'm supposed to be making the best of. That's real easy for you to say, considering I'm the one who had to deal with the consequences of your master infiltration plan. Real easy to say when I'm the one who did all the heavy lifting and I'm the one who got DEPORTED. Or did you forget? Thought I fancied a little vacation in the Hague?

Go fuck yourself, La Cour.

  

* * *

 

_21april2004  
_ _03:02 hours_  
 **To:**  t.lacour@dmail.dk  
 **From:**  a.fischer@dmail.dk

 

**Subj:**  [Blank]

 

sorry

im sotry

 

* * *

 

_21april2004  
_ _03:04 hours_  
 **To:**  a.fischer@dmail.dk  
 **From:**  t.lacour@dmail.dk

 

**Subj:**  [Blank]

 

Fischer? It's alright. It is. I'm sorry if it sounded as though I were trying to make light of your situation. Will you talk to me? Please? If we're both awake at this hour anyway... There's a link to a chat program at the bottom of this email. It's a private connection. If you decide you don't want to talk, that's fine. But I'll be awake for awhile if you do.

 

Yours,  
La Cour

 

[link] 

 

* * *

 

**[a.fischer has signed on]**

**t.lacour:**  Fischer, are you alright? Have you been drinking?

**a.fischer:**  no and ya

**t.lacour:**  I'm sorry. I really am.

**a.fischer:**  its not u  
 **a.fischer:**  its just this place  
 **a.fischer:**  and evrything  
 **a.fischer:**  i shoulnthave said that to u

**t.lacour:**  I already told you, it's fine. 

**a.fischer:**  no its not  
 **a.fischer:**  shouldnt take it out on u  
 **a.fischer:**  ur the last person wanto do that to  
 **a.fischer:**  an im sorry

**t.lacour:**  Alright. Apology accepted.  
 **t.lacour:**  Have you stopped drinking?

**a.fischer:**  ya

**t.lacour:**  Good. Make sure you're drinking water. Do you have a glass? If not, go get one. I'll wait.

**a.fischer:**  nag wors than my ex  
 **a.fischer:** alrite i have one

**t.lacour:**  Okay.  
 **t.lacour:**  ...but Fischer, will you talk to me? Tell e what's on your mind.  
 **t.lacour:**  *me

**a.fischer:**  i wantto come home  
 **a.fischer:**  i miss everyone  
 **a.fischer:**  i miss u  
 **a.fischer:**  miss ur voice  
 **a.fischer:**  all the shit wass ok beause u were there  
 **a.fischer:**  but ur not here  
 **a.fischer:**  an i miss u

**t.lacour:**  I miss you, too, Fischer. We all do. I'm still trying to think of a way to get you home.  
 **t.lacour:**  I met with Palsby, but he says it's not up to him.  
 **t.lacour:** I'm sure there must be some way, I just haven't found it yet.

**[a.fischer has gone idle]**

**t.lacour:**  Fischer?

**t.lacour:**  Fischer, are you still there?

**a.fischer:**  ya  
 **a.fischer:**  thinking

**t.lacour:**  About what?

**a.fischer:**  what u wrote  
 **a.fischer:**  u and helene  
 **a.fischer:**  u said u were afraid i was jus saying my inuries were healing  
 **a.fischer:**  but u keep things from me too

**t.lacour:**  I guess that's true. But things are fine between me and Helene.  
 **t.lacour:**  I didn't tell you when it happened because it was such a minor issue compared to what you were dealing with.

**a.fischer:**  when?

**t.lacour:**  It was months ago. When you were in prison.

**a.fischer:**  an then i left

**t.lacour:**  Well, not before you gave me a good sock to the jaw.

**a.fischer:**  thats why i kissed u first

**t.lacour:**  I think I would have preferred a proper warning instead.

**a.fischer:**  i dont think u wouldve

**t.lacour:**  Well.  
 **t.lacour:**  Agree to disagree.

**a.fischer:**  hey  
 **a.fischer:**  i think i need sleep  
 **a.fischer:**  can we do this again

**t.lacour:**  I'm glad you want to.  
 **t.lacour:**  I'll try to be logged on as often as possible.  
 **t.lacour:**  Now, please get some sleep. And take care of yourself. Eat something when you wake up.

**a.fischer:**  ok. goodnight la cour.

**t.lacour:**  Goodnight, Fischer. We'll talk again soon. 

 

* * *

 

Fischer spends a large portion of the following day lying in bed with the blinds drawn and clinging to a bottle of aspirin for dear life. He does leave long enough to actually take La Cour's advice and makes himself some toast, thinking it would be bland enough to keep down. By the time the sun is beginning to fall, he feels exponentially better than he had when he'd woken up that morning. At least physically.

Reading back over the conversation he'd had with his partner the previous night, he wants to kick himself. God, he was an ass. A complete and utter ass. And could he be any more obvious? 

"Fine time to try and come on to him, Fischer," he grouses aloud. "Oh, you and Helene aren't together anymore? Did I tell you how much I miss the sound of your voice? Fuck _me_ that's pathetic."

He lights up a cigarette, tossing the lighter aside in agitation and inhaling deeply. Frankly, he found it shocking that La Cour hadn't picked up on it. But then, that was La Cour for you; painfully brilliant in his work and woefully oblivious in matters regarding his personal life. Well, at the very least if he _had_  noticed, he'd had the decency not to say anything about it. Fischer moves away from the computer and flops back on the bed, blowing smoke up at the ceiling thoughtfully.

It had been a slow realization for him, regarding La Cour. He'd slept with men before but he'd never really had feelings for any of them. It was just sex. Amazing sex, yeah, but just sex in the end. So he hadn't really seen it coming when it came to La Cour. It wasn't as though they'd clicked instantly when they'd first met. More like they'd gradually come together after their fair share of frustrating arguments. It was Torben who'd insisted they made a great pair and had them keep at it, pairing them together for assignments despite protest from both sides (and from IP who was tired of having to listen to both of them). Well, rest his soul, Torben was right.

A kidnapping case had forced them to come together in unexpected ways. Cases involving children were always difficult, but it seemed that case had hit a sore spot for both of them. Too many late nights working together had resulted in the kind of slow, quiet conversations that only happen when you're well and truly sleep deprived. They learned more about each other in a matter of days than they had in all the months before. The whole thing had taken a turn when La Cour had rushed off on a hunch--well at that time that's what they'd thought it was, but now he wonders if perhaps it wasn't something more--with a sort of energy like he'd touched a live wire. Fischer knew he worked hard, but that had been the first time he'd seen just how deeply into his work that La Cour buried himself. 

Too deep. But he'd been right. The two of them wound up practically making a beeline to the kidnapped child. And the kidnapper, as it were. Fischer had found his body moving of its own accord when he saw their kidnapper aiming a gun straight at La Cour and the child he was quickly working to release from her bindings. There had been a ferocious tousle between Fischer and the kidnapper, during which the gun had gone off. Only after the man had been subdued did they notice the copious amounts of blood staining the lower left side of Fischer's shirt. Fischer remembers feeling the shot when it had happened, but bringing the mountain of a man he was fighting with to the ground was more important.

It had been surreal watching La Cour's face turn pale as he pressed down on the wound quickly, a flurry of questions passing his lips too quickly for Fischer to follow. He'd assured La Cour it looked worse than it was. He'd merely been grazed, though, he'd need quite a few stitches regardless. It wound up being a bit worse than that, considering the last thing he remembered was La Cour carrying the little girl in one arm, calling for backup with his phone nestled between his cheek and shoulder, and his other hand occupied applying pressure to Fischer's wound.

And then Fischer had woken up in the hospital, groggy and irritable at the nurses prodding him, but curious over the sight of La Cour passed out fast asleep in the chair beside his bed. Eventually, once they were both awake at the same time, another conversation was had. One where La Cour had thanked him for taking that shot and where Fischer had told him that so long as they were working together, 'thank you' wasn't something he wanted to hear. Besides, La Cour had been the one with that brilliant flash of insight that had lead them there. The way Fischer saw it, _someone_  had to cover his ass, and it may as well've been him.

After that, they became damn near inseparable. To the point that Fischer couldn't take a vacation with his wife and child unless La Cour was along with them. (And why _that_  wasn't a giant flashing sign, he will never know.) La Cour was--is--his best friend. But when thinking back to having your best friend pinned beneath you and panting on the wrestling mat gives you a hard on, well... perhaps it's time to rethink how you define 'friend.'

Sparring was something they'd done often, but more recently, memories of it had become decidedly prurient. Instead of thinking back to review both their performances to make room for improvement, he winds up thinking of La Cour's body pressed beneath his. Fischer's body is built for fighting, and it shows. But La Cour has a runner's physique; long and lean. With the two of them pressed together, the difference was obvious. La Cour has an inch or two on him in height, but Fischer's stronger and once he has the clairvoyant pinned, he can keep him that way.

He thought to the way La Cour had squirmed beneath him, bucking upward in an attempt to throw him off. The sound of him panting, the sight of his face flushed, the smell of sweat mingling with the sandalwood of his cologne... All these things which had never really thought twice about suddenly seemed outright erotic.

Fischer's eyes fly open as he realizes too late he'd been thinking a little too hard about the way those thoughts made him feel. He grumbles as he tries to ignore the unmistakable bulge in his jeans. No. He's _not_ doing this. Whatever kind of feelings he has for him, La Cour is still his _friend_ , dammit. What kind of person jerks off to thoughts of their best friend?

Plenty of people, actually, he's found.

But that's not the point. The point is, if he hasn't got the balls to say anything about how he feels, then he's got no damn right to be doing this. None at all. He promised himself he wouldn't. But his 'problem' isn't exactly going away. Lying on the bed he draws deeply from his cigarette, burning it down to the filter in mere moments as he puffs in agitation. He tries to think of something else, anything else, to distract himself. Realizing the problem won't go away unless he takes care of it, he snubs the remainder of his cigarette out in the ashtray and switches tactics. He shifts his focus as he leans back and closes his eyes, palming himself through his jeans. Thinking of _anyone_  else at this point would be better. Mille. Ida. A handful of previous lovers. Hell, he even tries thinking of any porn he'd watched. But no matter what he does, he can't get far before he's seeing La Cour beneath him instead.

"Fuck," Fischer hisses quietly.

He hesitates a moment, hearing his own quickened pulse echoing in his ears before he tugs up the hem of his shirt and fumbles with the button on his jeans. Next comes the zipper and then he's sighing in relief as he pulls his hardening cock into the open air. There's a lingering feeling of shame in the pit of his stomach at what he's about to do, but it's not as though it's the first time. He remembers that very well--cumming against the wall of his shower so hard he saw stars behind his eyelids. It's just that he promised himself he wouldn't. That he'd stop. But he couldn't stop himself now even if he wanted to, and he guiltily pushes the feeling aside. He leans over to pull open the drawer of the nightstand, knowing just what he's looking for. The tiny bottle of aloe had been sent with him in a 'care package' by the doctor who'd patched him up after he'd had the shit kicked out of him. Thinking he'd not be using it anytime soon, he'd tossed it in the back of the drawer.

Now he's glad he did. He squirts a healthy dose into his palm and reaches down to slick himself up. He inhales sharply at the sensation, eyes squeezed shut as he begins to work himself to full hardness. It's so wrong, so, so wrong, but he can't help but picture himself and La Cour pressed together in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with sparring.

Himself on top of La Cour. La Cour on top of him. God, he can't make up his mind. Both options are equally enticing, but he finds himself curious as to how La Cour would behave as a top. With his meek appearance and those soft brown eyes, most people would never guess he could be just as rough as Fischer if you pushed all the right buttons. The image of La Cour hovering over him, hands planted on either side of Fischer's head as he buries himself inside him flits across Fischer's mind and his cock twitches appreciatively.

He's breathing heavy now as he wonders what that would feel like, having La Cour inside him. La Cour fucking him. La Cour kissing him. La Cour touching him. La Cour gazing down at him with those stupidly gorgeous eyes. Would he be a talker? Something tells Fischer he would be, speaking in that even, methodical way that he so often does. La Cour is the tender sort. The kind who would kiss him slow and wet, moving inside him at a languid pace to match. He'd laugh against his lips when Fischer would eventually demand that he _move_ , Christ, please. He'd give in to the demand, stealing one last kiss before taking him hard and fast.

Fischer can feel his heart slamming against his ribcage as his imagination goes further. La Cour reaching down between them, stroking Fischer's cock in time with his thrusts. La Cour's hips stuttering as Fischer tightens around him. La Cour cumming inside him... Fischer's practically been fucking his slicked up fist with the imagery coming to mind, hips rutting upward faster with each thought, but that's what does it. The thought of his best friend finishing deep inside him sends him hurtling right over the edge.

_Thomas._

The name comes to his mind unbidden and he arches off the mattress, hips thrust upward as his cock pulses in his hand. He's biting on his lower lip hard enough to draw blood, determined not to moan as shot after shot of ropey cum splashes against his bare stomach.

He drops back flat upon the bed, panting and spent. There's a sudden raw ache in his chest and he opens his eyes to stare up at the still-not-quite-familiar ceiling above him. As the high of his orgasm wears off, the shame he'd pushed back earlier rears its ugly head. He hates himself for this. But more than that, he finds he hates the empty space in bed beside him. If he closes his eyes it doesn't have to be that way; he can see La Cour lying beside him, happy and sated, leaning in for a lazy kiss.

But he can't keep his eyes closed forever. With a sigh, he stares back up at the ceiling as he wipes his hand on his t-shirt. He glances down at himself, covered in cum and smelling of sweat, stale liquor and cigarettes. Oh yeah, that's an attractive picture.

"You need a shower," Fischer grumbles at himself.

He needs more than a shower, but he figures he'll start there. For a moment, he doesn't move. His eyes stay fixed on the ceiling and he blinks slowly, his fingertips ghosting over the scar just above his left hip. Somehow finding the motivation to get up, he begins to walk towards the bathroom, but glances back over his shoulder at the empty bed. Why is it that now it seems far too big for just him? Gritting his teeth, he marches towards the bathroom, wondering when in the hell he got this damn fucked up. 

 

* * *

 

La Cour has always had a bad habit of getting so lost in thought that he forgets to pay attention to where he's going. It was something that caused his mother and brother no small bit of grief, and something which had even impacted his career. The first time his name had appeared in a newspaper hadn't been for any act of heroics or outstanding accomplishment. No, it had been because he'd been hit by a bus he'd failed to notice while walking home, pondering a case. The broken collarbone, humerus and scapula in his right side still served as a reminder even now, the old injury acting up in cold weather (or when Fischer got particularly enthusiastic with him on the wrestling mat).

Needless to say, he'd learned to keep his attention focused to what was in front of him if he happened to be walking in areas of heavy traffic or otherwise potentially dangerous geography. Still, on occasion his mind will still wander, his body placed on autopilot to carry him to his intended destination. In this case, it was back to the station with his and Frisk's lunch.

But his most recent communication with Fischer was currently occupying all of his attention. He hadn't slept a wink after and it was showing now.

What Fischer had said... La Cour knows he didn't really mean it. He knew all too well by now that when Fischer was hurt, he had the tendency to lash out in ways some people might call cruel. But La Cour could take it. He _would_. Anything was better than thinking of Fischer keeping it to himself, bottling it up until it rotted him from the inside.

Then there had been the rest. Fischer was drunk. Incredibly drunk, it had seemed. But he'd insisted that he missed La Cour, had said it again and again. Then there was that comment about the... kiss. It had been an outright lie when he'd said he'd have preferred a warning for the punch instead. What he would have preferred was that kiss to be placed somewhere a little further south from his forehead. And Fischer had _called him on his lie_. But what had he done? Denied it. Of course he had. Because he was terrified. Terrified to find out he was right, that Fischer didn't--couldn't ever--feel the same. And terrified to find out he was wrong.

Because what then? 

"La Cour?"

He starts at the sound of his name and looks suddenly to his left. Mille is watching him with an amused smile, Viktor clinging to her hand.

"Whatever you're preoccupied with must be pretty good," she says. "I've called your name three times."

"Mille. Sorry, you're right, I was preoccupied with a case," La Cour says, shaking his head. "It's good to see you. How have you been?"

"Well," Mille says with a bright smile, rubbing her hand over her stomach. "Very well, actually."

It's then that La Cour notices the bump in her belly.

"Oh. _Oh_. Congratulations!" he says, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. "That's fantastic. You must be thrilled."

"I am," Mille said. "It was a bit unexpected but, you know how it is."

"Of course," La Cour says with a chuckle. He looks down before crouching to Viktor's level. "Hi, Viktor.  You must be excited to be getting a new brother or sister."

"No!" Viktor declares with a stubborn pout.

"And as you can see, Viktor has struck his rebellious phase," Mille comments from above him.

"Taking after your dad, huh?" La Cour says.

"Is daddy with you?"

La Cour admits he's caught off guard at at the young boy's complete about-face change in attitude. The moment La Cour had mentioned Fischer, Viktor's indignant pout vanished. His eyes were wide and hopeful, looking to the clairvoyant expectantly. La Cour isn't quite sure what to make of the fact that Viktor associates him with his father. Nor is he sure what his answer should be.

"No, I'm sorry, he isn't," La Cour says slowly. The crestfallen look on Viktor's face hits him like a punch to the gut. "Your dad's away on an important assignment. He's working very hard to come home and we're doing everything we can to get him home as soon as possible."

"Tomorrow?" Viktor asks.

La Cour opens his mouth to respond, only to come up short. A tight smile forms on his face as he wishes he could say it _would_  be tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after that. He's not sure how far Viktor's concept of time reaches at his age. Would he understand that Fischer might not be home for a few years?

"It's going to be longer than that," La Cour tells him. "But Viktor, I was thinking. Maybe you would like to write to your dad, yeah? And I could make sure it gets to him and then he could write you back. What do you say?"

Viktor's smile is broad as he nods in a quick, exaggerated motion. Mille's hand shifts to Viktor's head, rumpling his blonde hair (which is darker now than La Cour remembers it had been previously).

"Sweetie, why don't you go help Henrik? I don't think he can carry those drinks all by himself and he'll need someone big and strong to help him, don't you think?" Mille suggests.

"Yeah!" Viktor shouts loudly, bouncing on the spot.

La Cour watches as his friend's son bounds over to a man with dark, curly hair juggling an arm full of bottles in the door of a nearby shop. He remembers Fischer mentioning him, though he'd never seen him for himself. As he straightens up to full height, he finds Mille looking to him with a decidedly more somber expression. Her fingers twitch restlessly as her hands lie on her rounded stomach.

"You haven't... spoken to him, have you?" she asks.

La Cour clears his throat uncomfortably. "In a manner of speaking."

"Thomas," Mille says, in that impatient tone of voice that told him he needed to get to the point.

"I sent him an email some weeks back. I didn't think he'd see it, honestly, it was more a sort of coping mechanism," he admits bashfully. "He replied. And we've been exchanging occasional emails since."

"They told us we couldn't have any contact with him," Mille reminds him, looking suspicious.

"We're not supposed to," La Cour agrees. "I brought that up with him, but Fischer decided it would be safe enough if it were just the two of us exchanging emails. I made him promise to cut contact if it began to become a problem."

"How is he?" Mille wants to know.

"He's..." La Cour says slowly, fishing for words. 

She looks to him expectantly, worry brimming in her eyes. Regardless of what Fischer had done, it was clear she still cared deeply about him. La Cour thinks that perhaps he should lie, just a little. Just enough to put her at ease. But looking at her now he knows he can't lie to her. He's known her too long to do her that kind of disservice.

"He's not doing well, Mille," La Cour says in a quieter tone, watching Viktor accept a bottle from Henrik and demand to be trusted with another. "He's frustrated and depressed. He misses Viktor desperately. He's afraid he's going to be replaced as Viktor's father because of how long he's been away."

"Please tell him that's never going to happen," Mille says sternly. "Henrik loves Viktor like his own, but he would never try to take Allan's place. Ever. And Viktor loves him more than anything. Everyday I have deal with him asking when his daddy is coming home and he's certainly not talking about Henrik."

"I'll tell him that. He'll be glad to hear it, I think," La Cour says.

Mille blows out a harsh breath. "How bad is it, really?"

La Cour shrugs a shoulder. "You know him. I think you can probably guess."

"Unfortunately," Mille agrees.

"I'm sorry, I wish I could say he was doing better," La Cour says.

"No. No, no, I'm glad you told me," Mille says. She reaches out to take his hand and squeezes it once, fondly, if a bit too tightly. "I'm glad he has you. In fact I've always been glad he's had you. I still think you two should have told me what you were doing, but since we can't go back, just... please try to help him."

"Of course I will," La Cour says with a nod. "Fischer's my best friend. He's one of the most important people in my life, I wouldn't dream of leaving him there. I may not be sure how, but we'll bring him home. I promise you that."

She looks like she wants to say something to him, but then Henrik is calling for her and La Cour says he has to be getting on as well. Mille plants a firm kiss on his cheek and tells him to take care. He wishes her the same as she returns to her family and the three of them set off. For a moment, La Cour doesn't move from where he stands, watching as they walk further and further away. Then they round a corner, disappearing from his sight, and he sets himself in motion once more.

 

* * *

 

_21april2004  
_ _15:42 hours_  
 **To:**  t.lacour@dmail.dk  
 **From:**  a.fischer@dmail.dk

 

**Subj:**  About last night.

 

I know you're going to say I already apologized, but that doesn't count. I was drunk off my ass the whole time.  You deserve a proper apology for the shit I wrote. You've been the one person I could always count on and I was wrong to say those things. It goes without saying that none of it was true. I wrote it because I knew it would hurt you. And I guess maybe it says a lot about me that my response to dealing with a knife in my back is to stick one in someone else's. Fuck, it's so awkward writing these things out. I feel like I'm submitting a report. "Dear Chief, no one was more surprised than me..." Haha. It'd be easier if we could just go out for a drink like we used to.

Anyway, just forget what I said. I was angry and stupid and I'm sorry I ever sent that email. I'll do what you said and try to make the best out of being here until I can get the hell out. 

 

\- Fischer

 

* * *

 

**[t.lacour has signed on]**

**t.lacour:**  Fischer, are you on?

**a.fischer:**  Here. You're on late.

**t.lacour:**  I know, sorry about that. It's been an interesting week.  
 **t.lacour:**  But I did get your email.  
 **t.lacour:**  And you were right. You already apologized and the email wasn't necessary.

**a.fischer:**  Oh yeah? Because if you read the rest of it, I addressed that issue.

**t.lacour:**  Fischer.  
 **t.lacour:**  Please.

**a.fischer:**  Alright, alright. See if I ever apologize to you for anything again!

**t.lacour:**  Besides, you didn't say anything that wasn't at least a bit true.

**a.fischer:**  Don't even start.

**t.lacour:**  Look, there's no denying we came out more than a little lopsided as far as paying for our choices.

**a.fischer:**  I wish I was next to you right now.

**t.lacour:**  ...?

**a.fischer:**  So I could smack you upside that head of yours.

**t.lacour:**  Hilarious.  
 **t.lacour:**  I see your sense of humor has come through intact.

**a.fischer:**  Admit it: you love it.

**t.lacour:**  'Love' is a very strong word.  
 **t.lacour:**  Stop changing the subject.  
 **t.lacour:**  I won't beat a dead horse. I just want to acknowledge that you have a right to be angry.  
 **t.lacour:**  It _isn't_  fair the way it all worked out and most of the responsibility wound up on your shoulders.  
 **t.lacour:**  I wish to god I could have taken your place.

**a.fischer:**  No.  
 **a.fischer:**  I'd rather stay here the rest of my damn life than watch you do what I had to.

**t.lacour:**  But why is that alright?  
 **t.lacour:**  Why should it be alright for you to do if not for me?

**a.fischer:**  Because.

**t.lacour:**  Because...?

**a.fischer:**  Just because, alright?

**t.lacour:**  No, it's not alright. There's absolutely no reason why it should be acceptable for you, but not me.

**a.fischer:**  Are you really going to make me say it?

**t.lacour:**  Apparently I'm going to have to.

**[a.fischer has gone idle]**

**t.lacour:**  Fischer? Are you still there?

**a.fischer:**  Because it would kill me to watch you do that to yourself.  
 **a.fischer:**  It's not because I think you couldn't do it. It's because I think you _could_. That's why.  
 **a.fischer:**  I watched you nearly work yourself to death for that boy in Elsinore. I'm afraid with a case like this one, you might actually succeed. People always say I'm the one that's intense, but that's because they only look as far as the surface. You don't know how to let something go any better than I do. Worse, sometimes.  
 **a.fischer:**  Besides, no one would believe you were selling drugs to bikers.

**t.lacour:**  Plenty of people were able to believe I'd commit murder. It's not that great a leap.

**a.fischer:**  Crime of passion's different. 

**t.lacour:**  I'm not exactly a choir boy, Fischer.

**a.fischer:** No, but close enough. You have puppy dog eyes.

**t.lacour:**  What? I do not.

**a.fischer:**  You're in denial, my friend. Ever wonder why Ingrid always worried after you like you were her kid?

**t.lacour:**  No, because she treated you the very same way. That's just how Ingrid is.

**a.fischer:** Alright, believe what you want. But the point is, no one would believe you would do something like this. They'd believe it was me. I have a habit of getting in trouble, I've had money problems... it's not a hard line to draw.   
 **a.fischer:**  And like I said... I just wouldn't be able to watch you go through this.

**t.lacour:**  You think I couldn't handle it.

**a.fischer:**  I never said that.

**t.lacour:**  But that's what you're implying. You just don't want to have to say it.

**a.fischer:**  La Cour, it's not like that.  
 **a.fischer:**  I already told you, I just wouldn't want to see a repeat of what happened in Elsinore.  
 **a.fischer:**  You were gone six months after. I hated it. But I guess I didn't really show it, considering I didn't call once. Not even to see how you were.

**t.lacour:**  Well, I didn't call you either. I had plenty of opportunity. And besides, that's not the same as this.  
 **t.lacour:**  It's not easy for me to see what this has done to you. A million times I wanted to call it off, but I didn't.  
 **t.lacour:**  So why shouldn't I wish to take your place?

**a.fischer:**  Because reversed, this never would have worked. Not because I think it's any easier for you to watch me than it would be for me to watch you but because you have the patience and reservation that I lack. It's those million times you wanted to call it off and didn't. It would only take once for me.

**t.lacour:** You know that's completely untrue. We both wanted that confession, you would have kept going until we got it.

**a.fischer:**  You really think so, huh?

**t.lacour:**  I know so.

**a.fischer:**  I don't think that you do.

**t.lacour:**  Is something wrong that you're not telling me? Something that happened? You're behaving strangely.

**a.fischer:**  Nothing's happened. Nothing you don't already know about. I've just had a lot of time to think lately.  
 **a.fischer:**  Do you remember the night we went out for drinks after you came back from Horsens?

**t.lacour:**  Most of it, yes.

**a.fischer:**  The whole night, I kept wanting to say I'd missed you without hiding it behind a joke or turn of phrase.  
 **a.fischer:**  And I couldn't.  
 **a.fischer:**  It didn't feel right to say it when I hadn't reached out to you once in those six months. But looking back on it, I wish I hadn't held back. I did miss you and I was worried, you know, I just couldn't. Somehow. I started dialing your number more times than I can count and couldn't bring myself to press the call button. I just didn't want to seem... I'm not sure how to phrase it.

**t.lacour:**  I understand. You don't have to explain. It was a difficult time and I was

**[t.lacour has gone idle]**

**a.fischer:**  Hey. You still there?

**t.lacour:**  Yes. I was just trying to figure out how to say that I was not myself. Truth be told, as much as I wanted to come back or hear from you, I hoped you wouldn't try to contact me. I didn't want you to see me like that. The way I was then. Not any more than you already had.

**a.fischer:**  It wouldn't matter what you were like. You'd still be La Cour to me.

**t.lacour:**  Fischer, what happened then and what's happening now are two different things. Back then, I needed space to sort myself out. I never expected you to feel guilty for lack of contact. If anything, it was kinder to wait for me to be the one to reach out. And I didn't. So that's on me.  
 **t.lacour:**  But let's change the subject.  
 **t.lacour:**  Please.

**a.fischer:**  Sure.   
 **a.fischer:**  That's probably a good idea.  
 **a.fischer:**  Christ, I just read back through all of that. When the hell did I get so depressing? 

**t.lacour:**  Probably about the time you were deported.

**a.fischer:**  Ah, that infamous La Cour insight.

**t.lacour:**  Oh, I wanted to tell you, I ran into Mille and Viktor the other day.

  

* * *

 

La Cour scrubs a hand across his tired eyes as his computer shuts down. He'd stayed up far later than he'd intended and now the deep dark of night is beginning to lighten along the horizon outside his window. His temporary exile to Horsens is not something he particularly cares to think about. But Fischer had brought up a valid point. La Cour just didn't want to admit he could be right.

It's always at the back of his mind, that he's only a few steps away from another breakdown. Even now, over a year after the team had split up, he still feels the way he'd been treated... differently once he'd come back. It's not that he thought the others were scared of him or that they thought he was unstable, exactly. Hell, IP had taken him at face value when he told him he'd had a vision. But it just felt like he had lost some measure of reliability in their eyes. 

He was responsible. Dependable. Not prone to rash decisions or actions. And then suddenly that was gone. Well, not _gone_  exactly, but changed. Now the rest of the team had to worry about Fischer getting into trouble and La Cour having a breakdown. Or fainting in the middle of a crime scene. Or just plain losing his damn mind.

There are times where he isn't sure that he _isn't_  going crazy. It still seems surreal to him to tell someone he'd seen what had happened, in his mind, as it happened. Or something that _would_  happen. The team has never given him grief for it, but sometimes it's difficult working with other departments. Not that he'd ever say anything about it, but he hears the way they whisper behind his back.

_Did you hear he was a suspect in a murder? His prints were all over the scene. No way he didn't do it._

_I heard he thinks he's psychic. You think it's safe for him to be carrying a gun?_

_A few years ago, he had a total meltdown. How long until you think he snaps for real?_

Of course he ignores it. As best he can, anyway. It would be pointless to confront any of them and he knows the things they say are just fluff. Gossip. But as much as he says he ignores it, he can't. Not completely. Because he has to wonder if it might be true. If he might really snap someday. If he really is crazy.

Now, dealing with this while serving time for dealing to bikers? That's a recipe for disaster.

It's pointless pondering it now; it's over and done. But all the same he finds himself hung up on it. Hung up on the fact that Fischer seems to think it's all well and good to martyr himself for the cause, but refuses to budge on the idea that La Cour may have done the same. They argued about this particular point when this venture was only in the planning stages, but it felt less personal then. Fischer's talking point had been more about his own strengths and less about La Cour's flaws.

Ever since he began having these visions, things have been different. He's felt different. Sometimes he pictures it like ink dripped on white paper. It bleeds into the material, spreading across it. Consuming it. Sometimes it feels like he's becoming a different person. Not growing, in the way that all people do, but transforming into something else. Something _not him_.

As many times as he tells himself this idea is ridiculous, he still finds himself avoiding his own gaze in the mirror, afraid of what he'll find. And this, he knows, is why he could never do what Fischer had done. He's fine, he knows he is, but these moments of quiet doubt are what undo him. Not for the first time, he wishes he had Fischer's strength. It's one of the things he's always admired about Fischer: his tenacity, his ability to keep pushing through things that would knock the rest of them flat. The way he can keep going despite whatever life throws at him.

Part of that, he knows, is the product of a very unhappy childhood. On a few occasions, when he was properly drunk enough, Fischer had shared details of that childhood with him. His mother had died when he was ten, leaving him to be raised by his father. He uses the term 'raised' lightly considering his father usually preferred to spend his time looking for answers to his problems at the bottom of a bottle and smacking his son around.

Fischer had learned to fend for himself in this way. His stubborn inability to quit sprang forth from an environment where he had no choice but to keep pushing on if he wanted to get out. La Cour can't claim to have had such a terrible childhood. An absentee father and a mother who seemed to hate him for the fact that La Cour was the spitting image of him were not very happy things... but at the very least, he'd had his older half-brother looking out for him. Fischer had had no one.

He pushes away from his desk, hearing his back pop as he stretches. Christ, it's bad enough he pulls so many all-nighters at work, now here he is doing it at home. But he's not exactly going to pass up an opportunity to talk to Fischer. Even if tonight's conversation had made him once again re-examine the parts of himself that frightened him. Even if it had made him wonder if he really--

"Stop," La Cour tells himself, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes. "Just stop. Enough already, you're just talking yourself in circles."

 Knowing trying to sleep now would be pointless, he rises from his chair and walks towards the bathroom. Hopefully, a shower will help to clear his head.


	4. quid pro quo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Palsby summons La Cour and Frisk for a sudden meeting with unexpected results.

Despite the warmth of the June sun, La Cour can't help but feel a chill that has little to do with temperature. Glancing beside him to Frisk, he can see his concern is shared by the thin line of her lips pressed together. When Palsby had summoned them both for a meeting, they assumed it could only be about one thing. However, that being said, neither of them were expecting good news. They were hardly expecting Palsby to congratulate them on a job well done and to tell them Fischer was on his way back as they speak. No, things are never that easy. 

 

They cross the courtyard in silence, not really having anything to say at this stage, anyway. La Cour doesn't have high hopes for the meeting, but he can't seem to work out the anxious knot in his stomach. The possibility that they _could_  be bringing Fischer home isn't entirely outside the realm of possibility. He knows the likelihood of that scenario is very low, but he can't seem to douse that lingering flicker of hope that prays he's wrong.

 

As they draw upon their destination, a wave of nausea rolls over him. He hasn't eaten since Palsby had called to ask for an audience. He supposes he really should've, but then, he supposes he should have gotten some sleep last night as well. The thought of telling Fischer about the meeting had crossed his mind on several occasions, but he decided it would be better to wait and tell him after the meeting had already occurred. No sense in giving him any false hope.

 

"Ready?" Frisk asks as they pause, just around the corner from the office.

 

"Of course," La Cour replies, sounding surer than he feels.

 

"Well, I'm not," Frisk notes, checking her watch. "We're rather early. Perhaps you wouldn't mind waiting a moment here with me?"

 

La Cour is no fool. Frisk has no need to linger in the hallway like this–she's doing it for his benefit. It's not that he believes she doesn't care about how this meeting turns out, rather that he's never seen her overtly anxious about much of anything and he can't imagine she would suddenly start now. On the other hand, La Cour feels several too late nights and recent concerns in regards to this summons catching up to him. He finds himself thankful today is Friday so he can catch up on some much-needed sleep when the work day has ended.

 

"Would you consider," Frisk begins, looking out the window before them, "taking the rest of the day after this meeting is over?"

 

"I don't see any particular need to," La Cour answers.

 

"There's nothing especially pressing that needs to be taken care of," Frisk continues, as though he hadn't spoken at all. "When we met this morning, you looked as though you may be catching something. So, then I thought perhaps if you went home and had some extra time to rest, you might take care of it before it has a chance to start. Since you have your daughter this weekend and I know you'd hate to give up time with her because you were ill."

 

She has not looked at him once since she'd begun speaking and he wonders if it may be because she's _afraid_  to look at him. It was something he'd noticed, that night they'd gone out for drinks; when speaking from a place of sincerity and emotion, her gaze always strayed from him. La Cour knows what she's asking of him, no matter the fact that she doesn't say it outright. In her own way, she's worried about him. 

 

"Didn't you once recently accuse me of being a terrible liar?" he asks innocently.

 

"You are," Frisk answers, finally looking at him. "Absolutely dreadful."

 

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but you're no better," La Cour informs her. "Although how you can lie so terribly with such a straight face is beyond me."

 

"Will you take the day off or not?" she asks outright, seemingly annoyed at having been caught.

 

He grins at her displeased tone. "I'll consider it."

 

" _La Cour_ ," she says, her tone rapidly moving from 'annoyed' to 'you're in danger of being punched.'

 

"It's my own fault," La Cour says, raising his hands in defense. "I've been staying up too late talking to Fischer. I'll sort myself out, I promise."

 

She folds her arms over her chest. "See that you do. I don't want to have to deal with you suffering from a case of the vapors at any of my crime scenes."

 

"Oh they're _your_  crime scenes, then," La Cour intones thoughtfully. "And here I thought we were sharing."

 

"I was sick the day they taught sharing to the other children," Frisk says, pushing off the wall. "And apparently so was Fischer, since you're _his_  partner."

 

"Fischer's just being Fischer," he says with a laugh, following after her as they head into the office. "You know the three of us work together."

 

"No, no. I work with you two and you two work with me," she corrects him. "There's a vast difference."

 

"Now you're just being–" La Cour says, his sentence petering out as they walk through the doorway. It appears the office already has other guests and the sight of them draws his eyebrows upwards in surprise. "Ingrid. Gaby. Well, good morning."

 

"Hi, La Cour," Gaby says, grinning at his surprised face. "It's good to see you."

 

"It's good to see you, too," La Cour says earnestly as the four of them convene in the center of the room. "It's very good to see you. Wow, how far along are you now?"

 

"Six months now," Gaby says with a bright smile. "And apparently they're going to be a soccer player like their daddy if all this kicking is any indication."

 

"It's a boy," Ingrid declares confidently. "Boys always kick more."

 

"You know that's just an old wives' tale," Gaby says with some amusement.

 

"I thought so too until Tobias started kicking my stomach like he was prepping for the World Cup," Ingrid adds. She loops an arm back around La Cour, allowing him to lean in for a quick half-hug. "Any new developments since the last time we talked?"

 

"Oh, er... not really," La Cour says slowly.

 

"He took your advice and wrote an email," Frisk interjects flatly.

 

"Oh, did you, now?" Ingrid asks, leaning forward and looking quite pleased with herself.

 

La Cour clears his throat. "Have either of you met Frisk? I should have introduced her."

 

The introductions that follow spare him from having to explain any further–at least for the time being. From the look in her eye, Ingrid is keen on hearing how his communication with Fischer has progressed and La Cour finds himself cursing Frisk's seeming inability to let him have an ounce of peace. Ingrid is his friend, yes, but he hardly knows himself where this is all headed and he doesn't fancy the idea of trying to explain it to anyone else. Though, perhaps it would be for the best if he did, since every time he turns around he finds one of his friends is a sudden expert on his love life.

 

"IP?"

 

Drawn out of his thoughts by the sudden exclamation, La Cour is caught off guard at the way Frisk stares towards the room's entrance like a hunting dog who's just heard his master's foot upon the stair. Though he himself had admitted to hardly knowing anything at all about the woman, he's found she's not one prone towards great shows of emotion. Which is why it startles him to see her depart their little gathering at a near sprint towards a smiling IP waiting in the doorway. 

 

"La Cour, your eyes are about to pop out of your skull," Ingrid says laughingly.

 

"What? Oh, I'm sorry. Did you say something?" he answers haltingly, tearing his eyes away from the sight of IP enveloping his colleague in a great bear hug.

 

"You looked like you were about to have a stroke," Gaby says.

 

"No, it's just that... well... nevermind," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "I have to admit I'm surprised to see all of you here. I don't suppose any of you know what this is about?"

 

"Not a clue," Gaby answers.

 

"I assumed it would be about Fischer," Ingrid says, folding her arms over her chest. "That or they're looking for us to come together for a case and then split us up again once it's taken care of."

 

La Cour hears the undisguised bitterness in her voice. It's a feeling they all share. The thought hadn't yet crossed his mind until she mentioned it, but he doesn't enjoy the thought of them continually being strung along like this. They apparently had their reasons for disbanding them in the first place, but when there's a particularly difficult case, they come calling all the same. But if they think they can continue doing this, they'll have another thing coming to them.

 

"Imagine seeing all of you here," IP says as he joins their group at last.

 

La Cour leans over to Frisk as Gaby and Ingrid make their hellos. "I was beginning to think you suffered from some kind of muscle disorder which prevented you from smiling."

 

"Is there a disorder which causes someone to be horribly unfunny?" Frisk wonders aloud. "Because you may want to be tested."

 

"You're one to talk," LaCour replies. "How do you know IP?"

 

"He's a family friend," Frisk tells him. "I met him when I was very young during a case he was investigating. Actually, he's the reason I wanted to become involved with police work in the first place."

 

There's a chorus of drawn out 'awwwww's' from Ingrid and Gaby which reminds them that their conversation isn't private. Frisk's expression pulls into a frown and the healthy blush on her cheeks prompts a warm laugh from IP. La Cour nudges her with his elbow playfully, but her frown only settles further on her face as she shrugs deeper into her jacket, bringing to his mind the image of a particularly disgruntled turtle.

 

"I have to tell you, I had half a mind not to even agree to come today," IP tells them. "Though if I'd known you would all be here, I would have been much keener to show up."

 

"Then I suppose it's safe to say you don't know what the purpose of this meeting is either," La Cour observes.

 

"I haven't the faintest idea," IP replies with a shrug of his shoulders.

 

They chat idly for a few minutes, catching up on each other's lives thanks to this unexpected meeting. Whatever the reason for calling them together, La Cour can't help be glad, at least for these few moments. He misses his friends. There's a phone call now and then, certainly, and perhaps you bump into each other once or twice in the course of your work, but... it's really not the same, is it? In its own way, it's almost worse than when he was sent to Horsens for those six months. At least back then he knew he had a team to come back to.

 

Now, however... His life feels like it's moving without any particular direction, tugged along by an unseen current, waiting for something to happen. It's a strange feeling for a man his age and one which he hasn't felt since he was very young. Perhaps this is what they mean when they talk about having a midlife crisis.

 

It's Ingrid's surprised face that finally breaks the flow of conversation. La Cour turns to look over his own shoulder to follow her gaze. Admittedly, he feels about as surprised as she looks. And equally as confused. Entering the room through the door behind them is Palsby walking alongside Ulf. The first had been expected, but the second, well, retirement must not be suiting him as well as he would've hoped.

 

"Ulf," Ingrid says slowly. "I wasn't aware you would be here."

 

"Yes, well, Palsby thought it best if I was present for this particular meeting," Ulf explains. He takes a moment to look to each of them, a fond smile spreading across his face. "It's very good to see all of you together."

 

"Please, everyone, if you would have a seat," Palsby says with a toothy smile.

 

La Cour looks to the rest of his team, noting the look of hesitation they all seem to share. They slowly make their way to the lengthy table and sit themselves down, waiting for an explanation at last as to why they've all been called here. Again La Cour feels that traitorous rush of his heart beating as he tries to remind himself not to get his hopes up.

 

"First of all, I would like to thank you all for agreeing to come today," Palsby says, standing at the head of the table. "I know what an inconvenience it was for some of you."

 

"And with that in mind, I think we'd all like to skip the pleasantries and get down to just why you decided to inconvenience us today," Ingrid says cooly.

 

Ulf shoots her a look of disapproval as Palsby's smile falters ever so slightly, but the former head of Unit One doesn't look as though she'll be backing down. La Cour sits straight-backed in his seat, ready to stand beside her whenever she gives the word. Palsby merely smiles, accepting the insult with an outward appearance of graciousness.

 

"Yes, well, as it so happens, I've brought you all here to deliver a bit of good news," Palsby informs her. "It seems Unit One will be reforming. There has been a significant public outcry, particularly following the resignation of the Minister of Justice following that... _unfortunate_  news article. Public opinion of the police force has reached a new low due to the perception that we attempted to sweep the case under the rug."

 

"Perhaps it's _perceived_  that way because that's precisely what was done," Ingrid remarks.

 

Ulf clucks his tongue at her in warning. Looking at Palsby, La Cour finds himself having to bite the inside of his cheek in order to keep from smiling–if the bespectacled man's jaw clenches any tighter, his teeth are bound to crack. Yet he still maintains an air of gregariousness, as though they're all just chatting over tea.

 

"Regardless," Palsby says smoothly, "certain members of the union decided that Unit One was the most likely candidate for winning back public favor."

 

"And so you plan to trot us out like a prize horse and, what? Take us out to the field when you've achieved your goal?" Ingrid asks him.

 

" _Ingrid_ ," Ulf hisses.

 

"Now, now, Ulf, no need to get upset," Palsby assures him. "She's within her right to air her grievances, after all. To answer your question, no. New contracts will be drawn up and reviewed every five years. Unit One will remain a permanent unit within the national police. However, your budget will be significantly smaller than it was previously; after all, there _was_  a reason it was disbanded in the first place."

 

"What about Fischer?" La Cour asks.

 

The sad expression on Ulf's face, mirrored by Palsby's barely contained glee, tells him everything he needs to know. His chest feels tight. He'd told himself not to be too hopeful, but he's found he's not very good when it comes to following his own advice.

 

"No, I'm afraid Fischer is to remain stationed in the Hague," Palsby informs him. "I don't expect him to be returned to us in the near future."

 

"Exactly how long do you plan on keeping him away?" La Cour presses.

 

"As long as necessary," Palsby replies. "Unfortunately, the matter is out of my hands for the time being."

 

"Is this what you were referring to by budget cuts?" IP wants to know. "Having us operate a man short?"

 

"No, no, of course not," Palsby says with a chuckle, as though even the suggestion were ridiculous. "You'll be getting a replacement, of course. That's why I've asked Inspector Frisk here today."

 

La Cour's eyes are not the only pair turned to her in shock. If Frisk is surprised, however, she doesn't show it. Although, if La Cour is guessing right, she almost appears... angry. Unhappy, at the very least. It's nothing in her face, really. Just her eyes. He's never quite seen them this way, burning like two black coals as she stares back at Palsby.

 

"No," Frisk says simply.

 

"I beg your pardon?" Palsby answers mildly.

 

"I said 'no,'" Frisk repeats. "I'm not interested."

 

Palsby chuckles once more. "Inspector Frisk, not so long ago you were fighting tooth and nail to join Unit One. Are you to tell me that's no longer your goal?"

 

"It's very much my goal," Frisk answers evenly. "But I have no intention of joining Unit One as someone's replacement, least of all Fischer's."

 

La Cour raises an eyebrow as she rises from her seat, buttoning her coat and picking up her briefcase.

 

"If I should ever be considered for placement in Unit One, it will be by my own merit; not as someone else's stand-in," she says, with an air of finality. "Now, if that's all, I'll be on my way. Good afternoon."

 

" _Frisk_ ," La Cour hisses under his breath.

 

She stops long enough to offer him that same, familiarly curious look, as though she has no idea why he's trying to stop her. It's true, La Cour would rather have Fischer back with them, but he can't simply allow her to walk out like this. He can't allow her to refuse the offer for some kind of moral standpoint. Yet, La Cour can only watch as his colleague turns swiftly towards the door and begins walking.

 

"Inspector, if you walk out that door, you will be issued no less than a two-week suspension," Palsby says, his voice raised but somehow still sickeningly mild.

 

"My address is on file," Frisk answers without turning to look back. "You know where to send the letter."

 

"Very well," Palsby says with a faint shrug. "You were merely the first that Ulf suggested. If not you, then I'm sure there are plenty of others eager to fill the position."

 

That stops her in her tracks with her hand on the door. The look she offers Palsby in return for his comment is mirrored by the sudden flash of angry heat La Cour feels rising up under his collar. There's a game being played here, he's sure. Only they haven't been let in on the rules. There's a reason behind everything Palsby is doing and La Cour isn't fool enough to believe it's out of the goodness of his heart or even just to raise public opinion. No, there's more at work here, he just can't put his finger on it.

 

"I don't care for you, Deputy Commissioner," Frisk says outright.

 

La Cour hears a long-suffering sigh from IP. It's a feeling he's begun to understand a little too well.

 

"A shame, but you are, of course, welcome to your opinion," Palsby says, still infuriatingly friendly. "Am I to assume you will be accepting the position, then?"

 

Frisk pauses, her eyes finding La Cour. There's a question there like she's looking to him for confirmation. Or for his blessing. He may not care for how it's being done, but if bringing Fischer home isn't a possibility at the moment, then he'd rather have her than whoever Palsby might deign to pick. The last thing he needs to worry about is a spy in their midst. He nods.

 

"...I accept," Frisk says slowly. She shifts her stance. "Why is Fischer being kept away?"

 

"For his own safety as much as for his choices during that assignment," Palsby explains easily.

 

"He wasn't the only one who made his choices," La Cour says, finding himself growing irater the further this progresses. "I had as much to do with Johnny's involvement as he did. I was the one who drafted the plan, Fischer was merely the one to enact it. So why is it that you've sent him away and I haven't received so much as a slap on the wrist?"

 

"The politics surrounding a case such as this one is very delicate," Palsby says, spreading his hands before him. He laughs. "Inspector La Cour, you sound as though you _want_  to be punished for this."

 

"What I want is a decent explanation for why you've taken the sum of all that went wrong during that case and pinned it on one man," La Cour states firmly. "Because I don't believe for a second that Fischer was sent to the Hague entirely for the reasons you've provided. In fact, I'm positive there's–"

 

"La Cour, _enough_!" Ulf barks.

 

It stops him in his tracks, his words stolen from his mouth. It's only then he realizes that at some point he'd risen to his feet, his pulse thrumming just beneath his skin as the grievances he's worked to bury were dug up and brought to the surface. He feels a hand on his wrist and finds Ingrid looking up at him from her seat. She shakes her head at him. Considering she had been the one who'd been so vocal in the beginning of their meeting, the action perplexes him. Until he catches a look in her eye that prompts him to believe that she's not asking him to let this go so much as she's asking him to let it be just for the remainder of the meeting. Looking up, he's surprised to find he's receiving the same look from Ulf.

 

With some reluctance, he reclaims his seat, murmuring some vague apology for his outburst, though he finds he can't rein in his wildly beating heart. Palsby has gotten under his skin more than he'd care to admit. It's unlike him to behave in this manner, but he finds that Frisk's words had prodded at that coal in his chest in ways he hadn't anticipated.

 

"If we're finished discussing the matter?" Palsby asks, looking to the room questioningly. Silence is his answer. "Very good. Ulf has decided to take on the task of explaining the contracts to you. Then, assuming everyone is in agreement, you'll begin on Monday. Thank you, once again, for taking the time out of your schedules to come here today. The commissioner is very eager to see Unit One in operation once again."

 

La Cour bites his tongue, feeling the itch to push the matter, but trusting Ingrid's judgment. Something tells him they'll all be discussing this very shortly, well outside of Palsby's hearing range. In any case, their meeting has concluded and he'll gain nothing from trying to prolong it.

 

"Inspector Frisk, if you wouldn't mind remaining behind for one moment," Palsby adds.

 

The rest of them had begun to slowly gather their things in preparation for leaving and when La Cour looks, he finds the woman in question moving away from where she'd been standing by the exit. As they begin to pass one another, he reaches out, grabbing her by the arm to stop her. Leaning in, he speaks quietly, his face turned away from Palsby.

 

"Don't press the matter with Fischer," he says. "If I'm reading things correctly, Ulf has something to tell us and doesn't want us sticking our necks out."

 

Frisk doesn't answer him, per se, but he reads the look of understanding in her eyes well enough. With that, he rejoins his team– _his team_ , he can hardly believe it–as they exit the office. Of course, Gaby complains as he and IP each take one of her hands as they descend the stairs, claiming they're fretting too much. But she doesn't let go of them, either. As defeated as La Cour feels regarding Fischer, he can't help the elated feeling of knowing the team is together again. It feels like... Well, it feels like he's been away for a very long time and he's just now finally coming home.

 

The five of them convene in the courtyard, the sun seeming just a little bit brighter than it had even just an hour prior. Ingrid, as usual, is the one to take charge.

 

"You know, typically when one retires, they don't continue working," she notes, looking to Ulf with an amused smile.

 

"I hate retirement," Ulf grunts, generating a ripple of laughter through the team. "And besides, if I didn't continue generating waves then Unit One would still be dead and buried."

 

" _You're_ the reason they've decided to bring it back?" Gaby asks, voicing all of their curiosity.

 

"Well, in part," Ulf says with a shrug. "If you make a few aptly timed remarks to just the right people, sometimes you can bring about change in unexpected ways. Although speaking of aptly timed remarks, La Cour, what's gotten into you?"

 

La Cour scratches the back of his neck bashfully. "Nothing. Nothing, really, just..."

 

"A whole lot of 'nothing' apparently," Ulf says with a sigh. "I understand how you feel. We all want Fischer back, but pressing Palsby like that is only going to dig a deeper hole, you understand? Be glad you weren't punished in any way for that whole affair." 

 

"I get the feeling you know a great deal more about all of this than the rest of us," IP remarks.

 

"Which is precisely why I wanted to get out of Palsby's office as soon as possible," Ulf replies. "If it suits everyone, I thought we could go to lunch and discuss all of this."

 

"I think we're all eager to discuss this," Ingrid says.

 

A door slamming announces Frisk's presence. La Cour watches as she walks towards the group, stopping just short of them, as though there was an invisible barrier separating them. Her face, as usual, offers no hint of emotion or as to her thoughts, and he waits for her to voice them instead.

 

"My suspension has been commuted to a week," Frisk tells them.

 

"Are you completely incapable of holding your tongue?" Ulf wants to know.

 

Frisk angles her head to the side. "I don't care for him. I thought I made that clear."

 

"Well, you're hardly the only one," Gaby says, her nose scrunched in disgust. "Something about his smile's so..."

 

"How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws, and welcomes little fishes in, with gently smiling jaws," La Cour recites cleanly.

 

Frisk snorts. "Yes. A crocodile is an apt description."

 

"Well, regardless of all that, perhaps we could continue our discussion over lunch," Ulf reminds them.

 

"If you don't mind, I'll be getting a head start on my suspension," Frisk says instead.

 

La Cour looks to her in confusion. She'd been very insistent on getting answers just a short time ago, but now she seems to be in quite a hurry to leave. She hovers just outside their little gathering, briefcase clasped tightly within her hand. He takes a step close and she takes a step back. The reaction is... somewhat alarming. 

 

"Ulf has some things to tell us," La Cour informs her. "You should come."

 

Frisk glances to the side. "No, I think I have to be getting home. Perhaps you could fill me in next week."

 

He's about to argue that she should join them, but something tells him not to, to just let it go for now. So he does. She seems to use his nod of acquiescence as permission to leave and, with a brief few words of parting to the rest of the group, makes her exit. La Cour watches her retreating form with a frown, unable to shake the feeling that something's amiss. He'd thought they'd come a rather long way since they'd first begin working together, but now he can't help but feel something had just set them back.

 

"I wouldn't worry," IP tells him. "As long as I've known her, she's never been one for joining in on these sorts of things."

 

"No, but recently I thought that had changed," La Cour murmurs. He shakes his head and glances once more in the direction she'd left, as though she might reappear around the corner, having changed her mind. She doesn't. "Well... let's get on, then."

 

 

* * *

 

They don't bother with any talk of business to begin with. For a while, La Cour very nearly forgets that's the reason they've come here as they talk about everything that's going on in their lives and take the time to reminisce. It's strange trying to make room for the elation of being back together with his team as well as the disappointment and the frustration that comes with finding Fischer isn't coming home. 

 

"Have any of you been in contact with Fischer?" Ulf asks.

 

They'd wound up in Ingrid's home, deciding that privacy was necessary if they were to openly discuss... whatever it is they were about to discuss. Ulf doesn't seem to be a stranger here, but La Cour tucks that observation away for a later time. He clears his throat.

 

"I have," he answers. "We've been exchanging occasional emails since March."

 

"I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that at least one of you has," Ulf says, tapping his fingers on the tabletop. "Has he said anything that seems strange to you?"

 

La Cour blows out a harsh breath, running a hand through his hair. "Define 'strange.'"

 

"Anything about feeling as though he's being watched or followed, possibly that people he's working with could be reporting his actions back to someone. Things of that nature," Ulf clarifies.

 

A deep frown settles into place on La Cour's face. He doesn't care for the sudden turn the conversation has taken and, judging from the looks around the table, neither does anyone else.

 

"No," La Cour says slowly. "Not that I recall."

 

"Do you think he's being watched?" Ingrid asks, leaning forward.

 

"I believe so, yes," Ulf says.

 

"And why is it that you believe so?" IP wants to know.

 

To La Cour, Ulf seems particularly troubled by whatever the answer to that question is. Suddenly he finds himself mentally reviewing everything Fischer had written to him, wondering if there had been something he'd missed. What does this have to do with Palsby? And why had Ulf been so eager to keep them from engaging him?

 

"I'm afraid I can't give you anything concrete or specific, but this is only because I don't have any real answers to give," Ulf relates to them, spreading his hands before him on the table. "What I can tell you is that I haven't been idle in my retirement. Certain individuals within our system approached me with some concerns and, the more we have looked, the more questions we have come up with."

 

"Ulf, you're not making much sense," Ingrid tells him. "What does all of this mean? And what does it have to do with Fischer?"

 

"I believe Fischer being sent to the Hague has an ulterior motive," Ulf replies. "As far as I've been able to tell, Fischer saw something he wasn't supposed to, although, he doesn't realize it. Whatever he saw has something to do with Palsby. Whether or not it goes any higher, I can't say."

 

"But what did he see?" Gaby presses him.

 

Ulf grimaces. "You see when I said I didn't have any answers..."

 

"So you don't know what he saw," IP interprets. "And neither does anyone you're working with on this."

 

"Correct," Ulf says. "But we have a vague idea. Whatever Fischer saw, it has something to do with fraud. You see, there was a very specific reason Inspector Frisk was first on my list of recommendations for filling Fischer's position in Unit One."

 

"Because you knew Palsby wanted her here himself," La Cour says slowly, realization dawning on him. "She's said herself that she's been trying to get out of Fraud and into Homicide for years. Their clearance rate skyrocketed when they acquired her, so the sudden transfer was extremely unusual. Unless you consider the possibility that someone needed Frisk out of the Fraud department."

 

"I have it on good authority that your colleague of the past year has an unprecedented ability to spot anything from counterfeits to forgeries with little more than a glance," Ulf says with a nod. "Which leads me to believe that there is something that may be passing through the department that Palsby does not want her to see."

 

"So sending Fischer to the Hague under the guise of it being for his own safety ensures that he doesn't figure out what he'd seen that he wasn't supposed to," Gaby says, glancing to the ceiling as she works it all out in her head. "And assigning Frisk to Unit One guarantees that she won't be able to be recalled to the Fraud department, so she won't see whatever it is Palsby doesn't want her to see which... has to do with whatever Fischer saw..."

 

"This all sounds a bit..." Ingrid says, her sentence trailing off as she winces.

 

"Yes, I agree it's all a bit flimsy," Ulf says with a sigh. "But it's no simple task uncovering it all."

 

"But you're sure about all this," Ingrid fishes.

 

"Would I come to you if I weren't?" Ulf asks, raising his eyebrows at her over the rim of his glasses.

 

Ingrid smiles, a laugh escaping her at the look. "No, I don't suppose you would."

 

Ulf smiles back and nods his head and La Cour can't help but feel there is some unspoken understanding between them that he is not privy to. However, the thought is quickly filed away once Ulf's attention is turned on him.

 

"I would have preferred to explain this to Frisk in person, however, I trust you'll manage?" Ulf asks.

 

"I'll bring her up to speed tonight," La Cour assures him. He clears his throat and leans forward marginally in his seat. "And Fischer as soon as I'm able."

 

Ulf once again grimaces. "Regarding Fischer..."

 

La Cour frowns. "You're not planning on keeping him in the dark on all of this, are you?"

 

"No, no, certainly not," Ulf assures him. "But I'm going to have to ask you not to discuss this with him, in the event that your communications are less private than they appear."

 

"I did think it was interesting that they wouldn't allow us to see or call him, but allowed your emails," Ingrid admitted.

 

"You think our conversations are being monitored," La Cour sighs.

 

"It would make sense if they were," Ulf says. He waves a hand dismissively. "But as I said, Fischer will not be kept in the dark. My contact in the Hague will see to it that he's aware of what's going on."

 

Even with this reassurance, this doesn't sit well with La Cour. He'd always felt that there was something off about the way Fischer was shipped out, but sitting here with confirmation of that fact only leaves him more perplexed with dozens upon dozens of questions. They have only the vaguest outline possible to work with. If ever there was a time for him to have a vision, it would be now, but nothing comes to him. It seems no answers will be forthcoming in the near future.

 

"Is Fischer in danger?" La Cour asks.

 

"For the time being, no," Ulf says. "If he should realize what he's seen, that could change, however."

 

"Then we have to bring him home. Now," La Cour says.

 

"That's not an option," Ulf tells him.

 

"You can't be serious, Ulf," La Cour says with a laugh of disbelief.

 

"Think _rationally_ , La Cour," Ulf says, his tone frustrated. "Of course I would like to bring him home, but Denmark is the most dangerous place he could possibly be right now. Until we can sort through this mess, the safest place for him is the Hague."

 

"You said you have contacts there," Ingrid says, stepping in before either one of them blows a gasket. "I assume they'll be watching him carefully."

 

"Yes, as well as providing me daily updates," Ulf answers.

 

Despite Ulf's words of reassurance, La Cour's agitation does not abate. As the conversation around him continues, he falls into a troubled silence and tries to make sense of everything they've just been told. He'd said himself that something didn't feel right about Fischer being sent away, but what Ulf's telling them now hardly feels right either. It could simply be the fact that they have so little to go on, but...

 

He feels it all at once.

 

The shiver up the back of his neck. The coppery taste at the back of his mouth. His hands clench into fists involuntarily against the tablecloth as his whole body goes taut. Suddenly, he's no longer in Ingrid's kitchen, but... it's not clear where he is. He's lying down? And he's... he's himself. He's always seeing things through other people's eyes but this is... his.

 

Fischer. Fischer is above him. Looking down at him. His hair is longer now, back to the length it was before he shaved it all off. But he hasn't slicked it back like he used to. No, instead it hangs in his face and he feels the urge to reach up and brush it away so he might see his partner's eyes clearer. 

 

Stay awake, Thomas. Stay awake. Stay with me. 

 

Something hurts. Terribly. Is he injured? He must be. Candlelight. Or fire? Both maybe. Red blurs all around them and... loud. It's very loud. Shouting. Screaming. Gunshots. He feels a sudden, overpowering concern. Ingrid. Is she here? Where is she? 

 

Breathe for me, Thomas, please. Please. Breathe.

 

Fischer looks so sad. And angry. Hurt. There's blood smeared across his cheek. But where...?

 

"La Cour."

 

La Cour comes back to himself to find all eyes on him. Ulf's hand grips his forearm as he slowly pries his hands open to find bloody half-circles from where his nails had dug into his palms. He's left with a dizzying sensation like he's bobbing up and down in an elevator, but he does his best to ignore it.

 

"Sorry," he says, clearing his throat. "What were we talking about?"

 

"You saw something," Gaby says, trying to catch his gaze. "Didn't you?"

 

La Cour purses his lips and pulls his hands into his lap. He nods.

 

"Something about all this?" Ulf wonders.

 

"I don't think so. Or rather I'm not sure," La Cour admits. "Whatever it is hasn't happened yet. I saw Fischer and he was... above me. I was on the ground. And I was worried about Ingrid, but I'm not sure why. I don't know where we were or what was going on... The whole thing was unclear."

 

No one says anything. He feels that sudden wash of embarrassment that comes with these visions of his, though it dissipates with the sensation of IP clapping him fondly on the back.

 

"Well, perhaps we'd best call it an evening," Ulf says. "Unfortunately, I've told you everything there is to know. I'll be keeping all of you updated."

 

"In other words, railing against your retirement," La Cour observes.

 

"Did you really think he would be doing anything else?" Ingrid asks with a laugh.

 

They exchange a few words, mostly in regards to ensuring Ulf tells them the second he knows anything, but otherwise prepare to leave, content with the fact that they'll be seeing each other again Monday morning. As La Cour slips into his car, he leans back against his seat with a sigh. He'd begun the day worn out and that vision hadn't helped in the slightest. He'd like nothing more than to drive straight home and sleep this whole thing off. Initially, that's just what he intends to do. But as he drives, he knows there's one stop he has to make first.

 

 

* * *

 

Standing outside the big, old building, La Cour realizes he's not even sure which apartment Frisk lives in. Not knowing what else to do, he rings the main buzzer and waits. Enough time passes that he begins to feel silly, just standing out here like this, but just as he considers going home instead, he hears a series of latches and locks being undone on the other side of the door, which slowly creaks open inward. A small, plump, grey-haired woman greets him.

 

"Name?" she asks in a heavily accented voice.

 

"I'm looking for Frisk," La Cour says. "Naoko Frisk?"

 

"Name?" the woman repeats.

 

"Er... La Cour," he says.

 

The door opens wider and the woman ushers him inside, happily going on in a language he recognizes as Italian but can't understand a word of. From her hand gestures, he can tell she intends for him to wait where he is and so he does, watching as she walks to and enters an elevator some distance away. Left to his own devices, he walks slowly in from the tiled foyer to explore the open first floor. There didn't seem to be any apartments on this floor, the layout giving him the impression of a sort of common room. A set of comfortable looking armchairs and a sofa are gathered about a fireplace, which holds a merrily crackling fire. Stepping further inside, he sees a coffee table in the center and a series of book-filled armoires lining the right wall.

 

There are a kitchen and dining area off to the left. The kitchen is spacious, with an array of appliances. Pots and pans and fresh herbs hang from the ceiling, suspended over a marble-topped island. It's clear someone had been in the middle of cooking; ingredients in the midst of preparation are carefully laid out and pots bubble on the stovetop.

 

"La Cour."

 

He turns at the sound of Frisk's voice. She greets him in paint-spattered overalls and sneakers, her hair pulled back from her face by a handkerchief and large, round glasses resting on her face. It's an interestingly casual departure from her usual attire, but more importantly than that, her reception of him is decidedly cooler than it typically is.

 

"That's certainly an interesting outfit," he declares with a raised eyebrow. "Doing some redecorating?"

 

"What are you doing here?" she asks, ignoring the remark.

 

He remembers her odd behavior following the meeting earlier in the day. His surety that something had happened between her and Palsby only deepens, but pressing the issue now will be like trying to wring blood from a stone.

 

"I had some things to discuss with you that really shouldn't wait," La Cour says. "I'm sorry for coming over unannounced. One of the other tenants let me it."

 

"That was Mrs. Leone, my housekeeper. I'm the only tenant here," Frisk informs him, beckoning him further inside. "Would you like a cup of tea?"

 

"The only tenant?" La Cour echoes in confusion.

 

"Well, unless you count the small menagerie of animals residing here, yes," Frisk tells him, slipping a kettle on. "I own the building. No one lives here apart from Mrs. Leone and myself."

 

"I... oh. Well. Alright then," La Cour says slowly. "Tea would be nice, thank you."

 

She leads him to the sitting area in front of the fireplace, pulling the handkerchief from her head as she sits opposite him. For a moment, she seems to be sizing him up, and he feels a certain wariness from her that he hadn't felt since they'd first begun working together. He knows he's come here with something to say, but instead of saying it he searches for something which might prompt the woman before him to speak to him as a colleague instead of an unexpected house guest.

 

"This place. It's rather large for one person," he observes conversationally. "I can't imagine securing the funds to purchase it would have been easy.

 

"My mother's family has owned and run an inn back in Japan for the last 800 years. It's built on land containing natural hot springs and needless to say, it's has been a very reliable source of income for the family. When my great-grandmother passed away, she willed me the majority of her personal assets. I used a portion to purchase this building and for the past decade, I've worked on restoring it," Frisk recites cleanly.

 

"You've done all this work by yourself?" La Cour asks.

 

"You didn't come here to make inquiries into my personal life," she says, again ignoring his remark. She has a habit of being terse but seems more-so than usual after their meeting. "What was so important that you needed to see me in order to discuss it?"

 

He feels as though he's courting a black cat on whose tail he's stepped into trusting him again. Though, he can't say what he's done to lose it in the first place. It's not as though he's getting anywhere either way and at the moment, his drive for pursuing the matter is absent. Abandoning the cause for the time being, he launches into his narrative.

 

By the time he's fully explained it all, his coat is draped over the arm of the sofa, there's a cup of tea in his hands, and the heat of the fire has him feeling comfortably drowsy. As he'd expected, Frisk isn't exactly pleased with the news. While he doesn't feel the inclination to so much as move a muscle, she's up and out of her seat, pacing and muttering to herself in agitation. He may as well be a fixture on the wall for all the attention she affords him. But it's a behavior he's familiar with and he doesn't expect much in the way of conversation, which frankly suits him just fine for the moment.

 

He sips his tea and watches her for a time, thinking she'll reach her conclusions soon enough, just as she always does. He waits. And he waits. And he waits. He refills his tea cup three times. No matter how much time passes, she doesn't appear any closer to returning to converse with him. With this in mind, he settles in and prepares himself for a long wait, knowing there will be questions to come. He tells himself he'll just rest his eyes, just for a moment, only a moment.

 

 

* * *

 

"La Cour?"

 

It's the second time today he's been pulled back to the present like this. Only this time, he hadn't even been aware he'd left. He jerks awake, blinking in bleary surprise as Frisk crouches in front of him, dark eyes focused on him. He knows he'd fallen asleep, and squashes down his irritation with himself for doing so in favor of trying to sit himself up.

 

Frisk takes the ice cold half-cup of tea from his hands—which had been dangerously close to spilling—and sets it aside on the table. La Cour scrubs a hand across his face, his body feeling heavy and sluggish. 

 

"I'm sorry, that was awful of me," he says, stifling a yawn.

 

"Are you ill?" she asks him, still watching him intently.

 

"No, no, just overtired," he tells her. "I'm fine. You must have more questions about... well, everything."

 

"Questions can wait for now," Frisk declares. She frowns at him. "I told you to take the rest of the day."

 

"Yes, you did," he agrees. "And technically I did, as I didn't go back to work."

 

"I'm not interested in technicalities," she says flatly. She sits on the coffee table, directly in front of him. She's close enough that their knees could touch, but she's careful to keep a defined space between them. "Did something happen?"

 

La Cour glances up, perplexed by the question. "What?"

 

"Did you see something?" Frisk asks. "A vision?"

 

"Is it that obvious?"

 

"Not especially, unless you know what to look for. When you've had them, you look a particular way. It's difficult to describe but it's different from how you look when you're just tired," she responds. "Something about your eyes, there's just a certain..."

 

She trails off, offering a vague hand motion in place of words. La Cour exhales slowly, resting back against the sofa once more. His colleague's earlier frostiness has dissipated, replaced by a tentative sort of concern. But he wonders still, what it had all been about. Knowing he'll get no answer on that front, he opts to give one instead.

 

"I did see something, I'm just not sure what," he tells her as he exhales slowly. "I'd rather not discuss it just now."

 

"Of course," she responds with a decisive nod. 

 

"I should be going in any case. I have to pick Marie up in the morning," La Cour says, rising from his seat.

 

Frisk rises with him. "You're sure you'll be alright to drive?"

 

La Cour laughs at that. "I nodded off. I'm not dying, Frisk."

 

"I never said you were dying," Frisk retorts irritably. "But if you 'nod off' at the wheel and get yourself killed, I'll never hear the end of it."

 

"Your particular brand of concern is always so touching," he replies.

 

"And your particular brand of humor leaves much to be desired," she informs him. Folding her arms over her chest, she stares him down. "I could drive you. Or call a cab. Or you could spend the night here."

 

"I'm entirely capable of driving myself home," La Cour assures her as he shrugs his coat on. "I'll even give you my word if it makes you feel better."

 

"Words are vapid and meaningless," Frisk says, leading him towards the entrance. She pauses as she holds the door open, once again giving him a thorough once over with her penetrating gaze. "You can give me a phone call instead to let me know you've arrived home safely."

 

"I give you my word that I will," he says with a smile.

 

"Get out of my house, La Cour."

 

"Goodnight, Frisk."

 

"Goodnight, La Cour."

 

 

* * *

 

La Cour shakes his head as he places his phone aside. For all of Frisk's peculiarities and apparent lack of empathy for the majority of people around her, he finds she really does care rather deeply, just in a very particular sort of way. 

 

He sits on the edge of his bed, tired enough to consider just sleeping in his suit and knowing he has to somehow summon the energy to do the adult thing of properly washing up for bed. It's been a long day, however, and even with how exhausted he is, his mind is cluttered with all manner of thoughts; loud and buzzing like a beehive. For a moment he considers writing to Fischer. What had happened today—parts of it anyway—should be explained to him and he felt he should be the one to do it. But it's a lengthy conversation that he simply doesn't have the energy for. It can wait until tomorrow; he can't be dragging his feet when he picks up Marie, so he needs to get in some solid sleep time.

 

His nightly routine is a blur in his memory and before he realizes, he's crawling into bed in his sleepwear with the minty aftertaste of his toothpaste still lingering in his mouth. He's hardly had his head on the pillow a full minute before sleep takes him.

 

 

* * *

 

La Cour dreams.

 

He dreams of a girl with a red ribbon in her hair. He dreams of snow. It's quiet. So quiet. A mighty buck, bigger than any he's ever seen, watches him through the trees. So still. So eerily silent. This is his forest. They don't belong here. But he permits them.

 

The girl is welcome—a child bears no ill will, does not know enough of the world to wish it the kind of harm that only man can inflict. Her back is to him. Always. He wonders if she even has a face. And that red ribbon in her hair... Such a bright red. Like blood. His view is nearly whited out by snow until all he sees is the red ribbon and the white snow and the great deer's large, dark eyes, always looking back at him no matter where he turns.

 

It speaks to him.

 

Its mouth does not move. There are no words. But it speaks all the same.

 

He can't hear.

 

There's no sound.

 

There should be sound, he thinks.

 

The roar of the wind. The creak of the tree boughs, heavy with snow. The crunch of the snow beneath their feet. But there's nothing. Just empty, white nothing.

 

The snow blots everything out, consumes it all until the little girl and her red ribbon are gone and there is nothing left but those two eyes. There's nowhere he can go to escape them. They beckon him to join them, to let the great white void devour him as well. But he doesn't move. Perhaps he can't. They watch him with a sort of certainty, right up to the moment that the snow claims them as well as leaves him utterly and completely alone.


	5. no patron saint for silent tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid considers herself a good leader and a good listener. But by god, what does it take to get these people to talk?

His whole body feels as though it’s made of lead. And it’s _hot_. Christ, it’s hot. Dim thoughts drift across his mind, shriveling in the face of the monstrous heat before he can hold onto one long enough to give it any substance. Where is he? Where was he before now? He can’t remember. He tries, but his mind moves sluggishly, unable to keep focused for longer than a moment at best. Why can’t he move? Why does he feel so...? So…?

 

Someone’s voice. Above him.

 

“Shh, shh,” they shush him quietly.

 

Had he been talking? It doesn’t feel as though he had. Cool, slim fingers gently brush through his hair, bringing some measure of relief from the hellish fire that’s consuming him. Fingers are replaced with something cold and wet on his forehead and oh, that's much better...

 

“Shh,” he hears again, even softer than before. “Just sleep now, Thomas.”

 

He’s not in a position to argue, as exhaustion clings to him like some morbid specter. Though a myriad of questions still come to him, he hasn’t the mind to ask them, and as he’s lulled back under, he puts up no resistance.

 

* * *

 

Ingrid glances towards the bed at the noise. It's soft, but restless. Seeing the way La Cour frowns in his sleep and shifts in agitation, all the while murmuring feverishly, she still has reservations. Her eyes find Jan, her look still questioning despite his multiple reassurances that La Cour would be just fine.

 

"I know it _looks_ bad," Jan says, finding multiple pairs of eyes on him. "But it really is just due to stress and overworking himself. While I can't explain the exact process of these visions of his, we've all seen that they're mentally and physically taxing. Ingrid, you found him out cold face down in the dirt once, didn't you?"

 

Ingrid hesitates. "Yes, that's true... but he woke fairly quickly then."

 

"Because it was due to a single vision," Frisk declares, having returned with a basin of cool water and a cloth. "This is due to repeated visions in a very short time frame. It's like having too many applications running on your computer. If you tax the RAM too heavily, the computer overheats and shuts down."

 

"A fair analogy," Jan agrees.

 

"But shouldn't he be in the hospital?" Gaby wants to know.

 

Jan shakes his head. "They'll just waste their time running unnecessary tests trying to determine what's wrong instead of letting him rest. Not to mention exposing him to a building full of sick people is asking to get him sick. No, in a day or so he should be fine. Just let him rest, try to get him to drink something whenever he wakes and you'll see the fever come down gradually."

 

Of course Ingrid trusts Jan's judgment, but her concern remains firmly in place. She worries at her lower lip as she watches Frisk quietly shushing La Cour and gently brushing his hair back from his forehead. Ingrid can't be sure what Frisk says, but whatever it is manages to prompt La Cour back towards calmer sleep. He's quieted down once she places a cool, damp flannel on his forehead and having accomplished her task, the slight woman resumes her perch on the chair by the window and once more entrenches herself in paperwork.

 

Ingrid sighs to herself at the visual reminder. La Cour had given them a mighty leg up in the case, but they still had work to do if they wanted to bring it to a successful conclusion and all of them sitting here worrying wasn't going to do that.

 

"Alright," she says to the room as a whole, "where are we as far as looking into those receipts?"

 

* * *

 

The next time—or at least the next time he remembers—La Cour drifts towards consciousness is considerably better than the last. He still feels that awful heat, his body dreadfully weak, but his mind is somewhat clearer than before. Enough for him to make a push towards wakefulness.

 

However, even opening his eyes seems to be a monumental undertaking; it’s as though someone’s glued them shut. He can hear voices around him, but they sound as though he’s listening to them from underwater.

When he finally does manage to pry his eyes open, it takes him a few moments to focus. He’s lying down, he knows that much. IP is sitting beside him, talking to Ingrid who is talking to someone on the phone. That's right. Unit One had been reformed just over a month ago and they’ve been on a case. But his recollection is… fuzzy at best.

 

“What happened?”

 

La Cour really does intend for it to sound like a perfectly normal question, but even to his own ears it sounds like a garbled mumble. Still, IP seems to be able to translate it.

 

“You opted to get a closer look at the carpet in the hall outside,” IP explains. “With your face.”

 

La Cour isn’t following.

 

“What was wrong with the carpet?” he murmurs, his features scrunched into a frown.

 

IP huffs a soft laugh, patting his shoulder fondly. “You fainted. Apparently you’re experiencing, for lack of a better term, a bit of a burn out. Your visions. You've had a good number of them over the past two days and the last one seemed to have taken it right out of you.”

 

That kick-starts his memory and a sudden jolt of dread shoots through him. Still, he’s not quite capable of jumping out of bed, and so all he manages is to awkwardly sort of flop over in the bed sheets, calling out for Gaby. He’d seen her outside in back of the inn and a pair of hands had grabbed her and pushed and that rocky slope was right in front of her and Gaby… oh, _Gaby_ …

 

“Here!” Gaby calls, waving her hand as she enters the room. “Right here, safe and sound.”

 

He relaxes at that, his breath departing his lungs in a great whoosh of air. Gaby is safe. She’s not hurt. The bay is alright. She’s fine, right here with them. It’s okay. His eyes slip shut once more as he works to calm his racing heart, only to feel something cool and wet being pressed to his forehead. A grateful sigh escapes him as it does something to combat this fever that he can't seem to sweat out.

 

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

 

“Don't thank me too much. I'm using you for mommy practice,” Gaby says with a laugh, sitting on the edge of the bed, one hand cradling her round belly. “Boysen says you’re to take it easy.”

 

“Just... for a little. Have to get back to work on this case before there are any more victims,” La Cour says, certain he’s slurring his words.

 

“No need,” IP says. “Frisk is out with some uniformed officers bringing our man in as we speak. All that’s left is the wrap-up.”

 

“So the only other victim of this case will be _you_ unless you relax,” Gaby says sternly, patting his chest for emphasis.

 

“Of course I had him checked out, what do you take me for?”

 

Ingrid’s voice cuts through the fog blanketing his mind. She sounds peeved, but not necessarily in a bad way. There’s a certain undercurrent of fondness there.

 

“Yes. Yes. _Yes_ , I already told you. Jan said it’s just stress and exhaustion. Bed rest for a few days will bring the fever down,” Ingrid says. “Fischer, if you’re that worried, talk to him yourself. But do _not_ work him up, do you understand?”

 

Fischer.

 

Good god, he wishes his limbs would cooperate with him a little here. Even propping himself up to his elbows to take a phone call may as well be scaling Everest. He leans back against the pillows, a bit more upright than before, as Ingrid hands him the phone, set on speaker.

 

_“La Cour?”_

 

There’s a pleasant little jolt in his stomach.

 

“Fischer?”

 

_“Really? If I’m not around to babysit you, this is what happens?”_

 

In La Cour’s current state, the jibe flies completely over his head. “It’s good to hear your voice. It's been so long.”

 

Fischer doesn't say anything to that and La Cour's eyes slip closed as he waits for some kind of response. He can hear Fischer breathing on the other end of the line. Even that’s fine. Hearing him at all is just grand as far as he’s concerned. It feels like it's been far longer than it has and those butterflies he'd held at bay begin to flutter in his stomach with renewed vigor.

 

_“Yeah. Yeah, it’s good to hear you, too. What the hell happened?”_

 

“I don’t know,” La Cour mumbles. “I suppose I overdid it.”

 

_“Well knock it off.”_

 

He laughs softly. “I would if I could. You know I can’t control it, it just… happens.”

 

_“Then_ _**find**_ _a way to control it.”_

 

It’s not as though he hasn’t tried to do so, but perhaps he should be looking into the matter a little deeper. He can’t exactly wind up like this every time they have a case. He doesn't _want_  to end up like this, doesn't want to drag the rest of them down.

 

“Thought you couldn’t call,” La Cour says.

 

_“I can’t,”_ Fischer replies. There’s a brief hesitation before he speaks again. _“I contacted Ingrid with a number to reach me at for emergencies.”_

 

“This isn’t an emergency,” La Cour protests.

 

_“You let me decide that.”_

 

“You’re not going to put yourself at risk just to check in because I’m a bit under the weather,” La Cour argues stubbornly. “You were sent to the Hague for a reason. A somewhat valid one, even if Palsby’s a… a fucking… _ass puppet_ …”

 

He can hear Gaby giggling as Fischer snorts a laugh over the line. _“What in Christ’s name is an ‘ass puppet’?”_

 

“I don’t know,” La Cour mumbles in mild annoyance. “It made more sense a moment ago…”

 

“Alright,” Ingrid says, reading the situation correctly and stepping in. “Fischer, I don’t think La Cour will be awake much longer. So let’s all say our goodbyes.”

 

Embarrassingly, La Cour finds that she’s right. He’s already teetering on the edge of sleep, slumping over with the phone in his hand and his chin resting on his chest. They each give Fischer their own send off of sorts. Fischer promises to write him soon and again tells him to take care of himself. La Cour says something in return, but it feels like his mouth is separated from his brain. He’s fairly certain he continues to talk right up until the moment he fades out, but he really can't say for sure.

 

 

* * *

 

Ingrid has found Frisk to be, overall, quiet and efficient. Her people skills leave something to be desired, but La Cour seems as effective at wrangling her in as he is with Fischer. However, she can't exactly say the other woman has integrated well into Unit One. Although she seems to have developed a healthy working relationship with La Cour and knows IP previously, she comes across as distant with all of them, preferring to keep to herself. If this were confined simply to refusing to take part in a post-case victory drink it would be one thing, but Ingrid likes to think she runs a tight enough ship to be able to spot potential leaks.

 

"Frisk, I was going to grab everyone some coffee," Ingrid says, standing in the doorway. "Care to come along?"

 

"No, thank you," Frisk replies, eyes glues to her laptop screen.

 

"You know, the report can wait until we get back," Ingrid tries again.

 

"I'd prefer to finish it now," Frisk says, fingers tap-tap-tapping at the keys.

 

Ingrid looks to IP, shrugging helplessly, her expression exasperated. Is she going to have to _order_  the woman away? Thankfully, IP deigns to step in, prepared to defuse the situation with the air of the man who could herd cats if need be. In one decisive motion, he slips the laptop out from beneath Frisk's fingers and folds it shut. She looks up to him with indignation, fingers still poised to type on keys no longer beneath them.

 

"I haven't saved my work," she tells him.

 

"Don't pretend as though you don't remember every word you've written," IP says.

 

"You're dodging the point," Frisk replies. She holds her hands out expectantly. "Laptop, please."

 

"The report isn't due until Monday and you don't need to hover over La Cour with the rest of us here to watch him," IP reprimands her.

 

"I don't need a babysitter," La Cour mumbles sleepily from the bed.

 

IP shakes his head. "Go with Ingrid for coffee and take a break, please."

 

"I don't need--"

 

"Naoko. Go. Now," IP says with an air of finality.

 

Ingrid is surprised when the other woman frowns, but doesn't make any argument other than to huff a soft sigh as she unfolds her legs and rises from her seat. In the corner of the room, Gaby smothers a smile, but doesn't make a peep. Wordlessly, Frisk steps into her shoes and grabs her jacket before following a very surprised Ingrid out the door.

 

Her surprise doesn't last long. For the first ten minutes of their walk, Frisk remains entirely silent, apparently not inclined in the slightest towards making conversation. This has essentially been the typical traffic for the past month; outside of work matters, their new addition is as silent as the grave. Even La Cour has been at a loss to explain the behavior, only saying that he believed something must have happened between her and Palsby. Well, Ingrid isn't going to let it go a moment longer. Not on her team.

 

"Are you typically so standoffish with your coworkers?" Ingrid asks.

 

Frisk looks to her with a perplexed stare. "Standoffish?"

 

"It's typically the word I would use to describe someone who refuses to work with her team," Ingrid tells her.

 

Frisk cocks her head to the side. "I haven't performed my duties to your satisfaction."

 

"No, that's not quite it," Ingrid says, pursing her lips thoughtfully. "You do the work just fine. But you don't really work _with_  the team. You show up like some kind of temp worker, do the work and disappear until there's another case. Even La Cour says you've been distant, for what that's worth."

 

"Is that not what I am?" Frisk asks.

 

"What?"

 

"A temp worker. Is that not what I am?"

 

Ingrid stops dead in her tracks. "Is that what this is about? Fischer?"

 

"Of course it is," Frisk says mildly. "What else cold it possibly be about?"

 

"I can't believe this has all just been a... _tantrum_  because you don't want to be Fischer's replacement," Ingrid says, pressing a hand to her forehead in agitation. "Well, like it or not, that's just what you are. And a fitting replacement at that considering you're both so fond of acting like children."

 

"I'm here because I want to bring Fischer back," Frisk says, entirely nonplussed. "I owe it to him to get him back. I owe it to him and I owe it to La Cour. And I don't waste time planting roots in places I don't plan on staying."

 

"And you don't plan on staying on with Unit One once we get Fischer back," Ingrid guesses.

 

"I don't plan on playing Palsby's game," Frisk says with a shrug. "Not to mention I hardly think the budget cuts would allow you to take on any more members."

 

Ingrid huffs an unamused laugh at that. "Budget cuts, right."

 

Frisk offers her a look that seems to ask if they're done with the conversation before continuing onward. Ingrid doesn't say a word to stop her, merely starts walking at a brisk pace to catch up. The conversation hadn't gone the way she was intending it to go. Ingrid considered herself a fine leader and a good boss, but Frisk had a talent for shutting down a conversation in the blink of an eye. La Cour had warned her the woman would be difficult, but Ingrid has to wonder how he and Fischer had managed. Then again, despite the cold front, Frisk _does_  seem particularly attached to the pair. In fact, now that she thinks about it, Frisk had always been close by when La Cour had had a vision, hadn't she? When they finally retrieve their coffee and pastries from the coffee shop, Ingrid decides to open up with that point.

 

"You're fond of Fischer and La Cour," she says.

 

Frisk shifts her hold on the bag of pastries uncomfortably, but doesn't deny it. Ingrid sees the opening and takes it.

 

"I noticed you stayed fairly close to La Cour throughout this case," she continues. "Especially when he was having a vision."

 

"Your point?" Frisk asks.

 

"You clearly care for him, but he's been worried by the way you've been pushing him away," Ingrid tells her. "He thinks something happened after that meeting with Palsby, but he doesn't know what. It's been bothering him since then."

 

"He told you that?" Frisk asks with a frown. "That he thinks I've been..."

 

"Pushing him away, yes," Ingrid says, finishing her sentence.

 

"That's... That wasn't my intention," Frisk replies slowly, eyes focused on the ground beneath their feet.

 

"Well, that's what it's seemed like to him," Ingrid says. She watches the other woman carefully. "You know, La Cour was never the best when it came to getting close to people. He told me once that he got so used to being alone that eventually he hadn't even noticed that he'd just stopped trying altogether. He also says you and he are a lot alike."

 

"I'm aware my 'people skills' are lacking, that's not new information. Can you just skip to the part where you tell me what you want?" Frisk asks bluntly, looking like she'd rather be anywhere else.

 

"I'm not asking you to be someone you're not," Ingrid says. "But I want you to actually be a part of this team instead of just showing up to do the work. The team doesn't function unless everyone is onboard. We all want Fischer back and of course things are going to be strange without him, but that's not an excuse. We have to keep trying. So I want you to actually _try_ with this. Because I'd like to keep you on even after Fischer comes back but you're making it awfully hard."

 

Frisk doesn't answer her in any way, but Ingrid doesn't press her for one. She can tell by her expression that she's given her colleague more than enough to think about and that she is, in fact, thinking about it. The silence feels a little less heavy as they make their way back to the hotel and as they approach the front steps, Ingrid has the feeling that things will be changing for the better in the near future.

 

"We are alike."

 

The statement had come so suddenly that Ingrid nearly tripped up the first step. She turns to look at Frisk, glad she hadn't spilled the coffee.

 

"La Cour and I. He knew what it was like to have other people view you as peculiar. Did you know when he was young, other children used to call him names? 'Odd Thomas' was one that followed him right up until college," Frisk says, her gaze firmly centered on the stairs. "I'd never met anyone who knew what it was like to be that particular kind of odd. I've met _strange_ people, everyone's met _strange_  people, but no one who was just... odd. And then Fischer. He was one of the most stubborn, grating personalities I'd ever had to work with and as terrible as that desciption sounds, I mean it in the best way possible. I'm used to creating space between myself and the people I work with, but he wouldn't let me keep him out; and I _did_  try. He pulled as hard as I pushed. The two of them together were... Well, I've never worked with anyone like them. They're unique and..."

 

Her grip on the bag of pastries has Ingrid concerned for the fate of its gooey contents, but it takes a back seat to what Frisk is telling her. Ingrid's certain she hasn't heard so many consecutive words from the woman since they'd met.

 

"La Cour worries me. With his visions and with Fischer. I don't think he realizes at times that he's taking too much on himself, whether out of some sort of guilt or whether he's just that oblivious to his own needs," Frisk says. "He's frustrated because he feels like a burden when he–"

 

"A burden?" Ingrid cuts in.

 

Frisk nods silently. "We spoke about it. Once. There's a level of vulnerability that comes with his visions that he hasn't been able to reconcile with."

 

Well that certainly gives Ingrid something to chew on. The La Cour she knows has always been quiet and thoughtful, but as she begins to think back, she sees a pattern she hadn't accounted for previously. Whenever she'd seen him following a vision he'd always appeared meek and withdrawn. She'd taken it as simply having been worn out, but with what Frisk has just told her, she's seeing it through a different lens. Now she has to wonder if perhaps they'd _all_  overlooked this and if La Cour had been struggling with it silently all this time.

 

"Then perhaps we need to have a talk with him," Ingrid tells her with a weary sigh.

 

"Perhaps," Frisk murmurs in agreement.

 

Ingrid slowly lowers herself to sit upon the stairs, placing the tray of coffees beside her. Frisk remains standing, though her gaze has shifted to the roadway. Ingrid wonders if she can goad the other woman into further conversation, or if she's just pushing her luck at this point. But it would hardly hurt to try.

 

"Has he said anything else? La Cour, I mean," Ingrid wonders.

 

"No, nothing in particular that he's said," Frisk answers. She finally chooses to look Ingrid in the eye, her expression open and earnest in a way that catches Ingrid off guard. "But I think it's very important that La Cour and Fischer be together again."

 

"I agree," Ingrid tells her. "Though I think it's also important that they figure out how to talk to each other about what they're feeling."

 

"That may be easier said than done," Frisk admits. "I believe they may both have some personal issues to work through before that can happen."

 

"And Fischer's alone over there," Ingrid says with a sigh. "What a mess."

 

"Well, Fischer did give you that number for emergencies," Frisk notes. "I know Ulf said it would be best to limit our interaction with him to La Cour's emails, but..."

 

"Maybe one more email wouldn't hurt," Ingrid says slowly.

 

"I'm certain it wouldn't," Fisk agrees. "Just the one. Or two."

 

"Of course, because I'd have to answer his reply," Ingrid says, nodding as she picks up the tray of coffee and rises to her feet.

 

"It would hardly make sense not to," Frisk says, following her up the steps.

 

"So we agree: it's the sensible thing to do," Ingrid declares. "Nothing overt to jeopardize his safety, just... a brief exchange."

 

"Agreed," Frisk answers.

 

"And we agree that you will try harder to work with the team," Ingrid adds.

 

"...agreed."

 

 

* * *

 

La Cour dreams again.

 

He dreams of the girl and the deer and the snowy forest.

 

The girl is wearing a school uniform of some sort, he can see that now. He can't say what school it belongs to, though. Her face continues to elude him. He's following behind her as she takes her time walking through the forest, touching snow-laden branches, fingers brushing against the bark of looming trees.

 

That red ribbon.

 

It's no longer just in her hair.

 

Red ribbon is strewn about the trees, strung between branches like a spider's web. The girl doesn't seem bothered by this at all. She nimbly ducks and weaves through the gaps, unencumbered by the silken obstacle course. For La Cour's larger frame, it's a bit more difficult.

 

Trying to keep his gaze focused on the girl while also trying to to trip or get caught in the unending lengths of ribbon proves to be a difficult task. The amount of ribbon seems to grow as they move further within the forest, the snowy backdrop gradually bleeding into a deep crimson.

 

He supposes it would have had to happen sooner or later. His foot catches and he trips forward, tangling himself in a silk prison. Extraction proves to take time and by the time he pulls free, he finds himself alone. There's a sense of panic in him, as though he knows he can't let her out of his sight. He steps forward. He feels a tug. He looks down.

 

Red ribbon tied in a neat, little bow around his pinkie finger. His eyes follow the trail.

 

The little girl is in front of him once more. The towering buck stands before her, red ribbon strung about the many points of his great, antlered head.

 

But the eyes...

 

Those dark eyes he'd seen before.

 

They're gone now.

 

Two gaping holes in the creatures skull take their place. Blood drips from empty sockets like macabre tears. He can still feel its gaze. It still watches him.

 

His breath catches in his chest. A third figure emerges from the trees. Familiar. Intimately. Longing pulls so strongly in his chest he feels he may be torn apart.

 

_Fischer_.

 

He tries to speak the name. But there is no sound. Fischer's eyes are on him. His face is somber. He doesn't seem himself. He holds a hand out, not to La Cour, but to the faceless girl. She reaches up. His hand dwarfs hers. But they bare a similarity: red ribbon, tied in a bow around their pinkie fingers.

 

_Fischer_.

 

La Cour calls again, louder now. But still silent. He must be screaming by now. Must be. But there is no sound here. Fischer is leaving now. He and the little girl. Hand in hand. Away behind the deer. La Cour surges forward but gains no ground. Ribbon. Wound so tight around him, keeping him trapped. He's calling, loud as he can. The buck watches him struggle with sightless eyes.

 

Its lips are pulled back from its teeth in a grotesque imitation of a human smile.

 

He can hear it laughing.

 

La Cour screams.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It's dark now. The room is empty.

 

La Cour finds himself thankful for those two facts after he'd woken mid-scream. He squeezes his eyes shut and works to regulate his breathing. His face is wet with tears and he scrubs at them irritably. Why can't he just be _normal_ , for Christ's sake? Why does he have to see things? Why does he have to dream like this? Someone's knocking at the door. He lies there in the dark, hoping they'll think he's asleep and give up, but the knocking only grows more insistent at his silence.

 

"Come in," he calls resignedly, sitting up and reaching for the light switch.

 

The door swings inward just as the light comes on, revealing Ingrid's concerned expression as she stands in the doorway. He swings his legs over the side of the bed, planting his feet firmly on the floor and preparing himself for the inevitable conversation that's about to come.

 

"Are you alright?" she asks, taking a step inward.

 

"I'm fine," La Cour insists, clearing his throat. How many times has he said that recently? "Bad dreams, that's all."

 

Ingrid nods, but doesn't look satisfied with his answer. Not that he'd expected her to. She turns and sticks her head out the doorway, exchanging a few words with someone. Wonderful. He'd probably woken half the hotel. Ingrid doesn't doesn't bother asking if she can come in, just closes the door behind her and crosses the room to sit in the chair nearest to the bed.

 

"Could we talk?" she asks him.

 

He knows it's not really a question. He nods, albeit reluctantly. Ingrid is watching him, but he keeps his gaze firmly centered on the floor, afraid of what he'll find in her eyes.

 

"What was the dream about?" she asks.

 

"I really don't know," he admits wearily. "I've had it before – or some variation of it, at least. But it's just... strange. Surreal. I don't know what it's supposed to mean."

 

"Was it _just_  a dream or...?"

 

La Cour presses the heels of his palms to his eyes, feeling annoyance well up inside him despite knowing Ingrid only asks out of concern. But he's just so _tired_  of having to explain all of this, having to put up with it. He swallows his agitation until he's sick to his stomach.

 

"I don't know," he says.

 

He's thankful when she doesn't press the issue any further, seemingly content to let the matter of his dreams be. Other matters, however, don't get the same pass.

 

"I had a good conversation with Frisk today," Ingrid tells him.

 

That gets him to lift his head. He stares at her, bleary-eyed, but focused entirely on what she's just said.

 

"You did?" he queries.

 

Ingrid nods. "It surprised me, too. But she confirmed some of my suspicions as well as brought to light certain things I had overlooked."

 

La Cour leans back slightly, his posture wary. He doesn't like the way this conversation is progressing.

 

"She said you told her you feel like a burden because of your visions," Ingrid says slowly. Her gaze keeps him pinned in place. "Why?"

 

His hands ball into fists, gripping the bedsheets with such force that his knuckles turn white. "I think she must have misunderstood what I said."

 

"Then perhaps you could explain what she misundertsood, so I can correct her," Ingrid says.

 

He struggles to come up with something to say, some kind of excuse, but with his mind still fuzzy with sleep and his heart still pounding with adrenaline, words fail him. She's got him boxed into a corner and he knows she's fully aware of that fact. The agitation he'd suppressed just a short time ago begins to break its seal and he wills himself not to let his temper get the best of him. He's overtired and Ingrid is worried. She's not accusing him of anything. Frisk had told her with the best intentions.

 

"Ingrid can we please not do this right now?" La Cour requests quietly.

 

For a moment he's sure she's just going to keep pushing, but then, he's not a suspect in their interrogation room. Ingrid sits back and sighs softly, watching him with the sort of look only a mother can give. He recalls his conversation with Fischer regarding this very matter and feels a sudden pang of regret at having caused her any grief. How many problems has he caused simply for keeping things to himself? Perhaps he's no better than Frisk after all. Perhaps he still has some things to learn about what it truly means to become close to someone. With that in mind, he comes to a sudden resolution. He relaxes his hold on the bedsheets, lying his palms flat on the mattress as he takes a slow, deep breath.

 

"I'm not trying to get out of it. I promise we'll talk about it, I just... can't right now," he admits wearily. "Not tonight. Not after that."

 

"Alright. But we _are_  going to talk about this," Ingrid says. He nods at her and they sit in silence for a few moments. Slowly, a somewhat guilty expression creeps onto her face as she nibbles at her lower lip. "I suppose barging in here at three in the morning and interrogating you after a nightmare probably wasn't the best tactic."

 

La Cour's lips quirk up at the corners, briefly twitching into a crooked smile. "Well, I did wake you."

 

"You're sure you don't want to talk about it?" Ingrid tries one last time, gentler now than her previous attempt. "You were _screaming_ , La Cour."

 

"I'm fine," La Cour assures her, swallowing thickly. "Really."

 

Ingrid doesn't seem entirely satisfied with his answer as she rises from her seat with a sigh, but she doesn't press him either.

 

"You worry me," she tells him.

 

"I'm sorry," he answers.

 

"Don't apologize," she says, clucking her tongue at him.

 

He tenses when she reaches out towards him, but settles into a perplexed silence as she brushes his hair back and presses her forehead to his. The action confuses him briefly until he remembers it had been something Helene had done once as well. She'd seemed surprised at the time that he'd had no idea what she was doing. Hadn't his own mother checked his temperature this way? But she hadn't. At the very least, Helene had understood why.

 

"Your fever's coming down," Ingrid announces as she pulls back. "That's good, at least."

 

"I'll be fine to leave in the morning," La Cour says.

 

"You let us decide that," she tells him. "Get some sleep."

 

He promises he will and they exchange a few words before she exits the room and he douses the light. But instead of sleeping, he lies flat on his back, hands folded across his middle as he stares into the darkness and listens to the sound of the clock ticking on the nightstand beside him. Despite promising Ingrid they would talk, he really, truly doesn't wish to. It's not simply the fact that it's an uncomfortable subject, but because he doesn't want to draw any more attention to himself than he already has.

 

Part of it, he knows, is his own fault. Sometimes – many more times than he'd like to admit – he forgets that part of loving others and having them love you is accepting the fact that they will worry about you, whether you want the to or not. Caring for people you love isn't a chore, it's just what you do. Even still, it manages to slip his mind when he's on the receiving end of that care. It just feels as though he's  _inconveniencing_  them. Before it wasn't a problem. A few years ago, if he was ill or tired or stressed or any number of things, he could lock it down and keep it to himself until it was properly dealt with.

 

But once his visions began it was as though someone had carved that part out of him. His control was ripped out of his hands by this so-called gift of his. That's what he really can't stand. The complete and utter lack of control. His body doesn't feel like his own at times and he's still not sure that he _isn't_  going crazy. Then the thought of having to explain all of this to Ingrid, to his team... Well, they're sure to have him committed then. And that's not even touching upon the matter of these nightmares.

 

With a sigh, he pushes the thoughts as far away from his mind as he can, swatting at them like flies.

 

Sleep.

 

He needs to sleep, that's all.

 

 

* * *

 

_09july2004_

_19:53 hrs_

**To:**  a.fischer@dmail.dk

 

 

**From:**  i.dahl@dmail.dk

 

 

**Subj:**  La Cour

 

Fischer, we need to talk. Log on.

[link]

 

 

* * *

 

**[a.fischer has signed on]**

 

**a.fischer:**  what happened

**a.fischer:**  ingrid what happened

 

**i.dahl:**  Nothing happened.

**i.dahl:** We just need to talk.

 

**a.fischer:**  Well for fuck's sake, you couldn't have said that in the email???

 

**i.dahl:**  La Cour is fine. We all went home earlier today.

**i.dahl:**  His fever went down and the last time I spoke to him, he was sleeping the rest of it off.

**i.dahl:**  Alright?

 

**a.fischer:**  No! I nearly had a damn heart attack!

 

**i.dahl:**  Are you just going to be smart with me or are we going to talk?

 

**a.fischer:**  Just tell me what's going on, please?

 

**i.dahl:**  I need to talk to you. About how you're doing. About you and La Cour. And about La Cour himself.

**i.dahl:**  I spoke with Frisk recently and there are some things that I decided needed to be dealt with.

**i.dahl:**  She told me a great deal about how she felt about the both of you.

**i.dahl:**  As well as how she thinks you feel about each other.

 

**a.fischer:**  Frisk spoke to you. About feelings. Using words.

**a.fischer:**  Were you holding a gun to her head, by any chance?

 

**n.frisk:** I resent that implication.

 

**a.fischer:**  jesus fukc when did you get here

 

**n.frisk:**  I've been here the entire time, Fischer.

**n.frisk:**  Hello.

**n.frisk:**  How are you?

 

**a.fischer:**  Wonderful. Skip the pleasantries and get down to it.

**a.fischer:**  What's all this about needing to talk about La Cour?

 

**i.dahl:**  And you.

 

**n.frisk:**  And you and La Cour in relevance to one another.

 

**a.fischer:** Yes, fine, that, all that. Get on with it.

 

**i.dahl:**  We'll start with La Cour first, since you don't seem eager to talk about anything else.

**i.dahl:**  He's been getting worse.

 

**a.fischer:**  Worse. Worse, what does that mean?

 

**n.frisk:**  Multiple meanings.

**n.frisk:**  Firstly, he's withdrawing. Since your imprisonment he's been drifting into a state of melancholy.

**n.frisk:**  It's only gotten worse since you were deported.

**n.frisk:**  He's been distracted. Inattentive. Displaying evidence of insomnia.

 

**a.fischer:**  La Cour doesn't get _distracted_.

 

**i.dahl:**  That brings up the next topic.

**i.dahl:** His visions have been getting worse.

**i.dahl:**  Even in the month since the team came back together I've been able to see it.

**i.dahl:**  I can't say that he had control of it before, but whatever he did have, he's losing it.

**i.dahl:**  They're occurring with greater and greater frequency. He seems to be gaining clarity as time goes on, however that seems to be at a greater physical cost. It's starting to run him down and I was worried before that he was keeping things to himself, but now I know for a fact that he is.

 

**a.fischer:**  And you think that if he continues keeping whatever's happening to himself, that he might get himself hurt. Seriously.

 

**i.dahl:**  Exactly.

**i.dahl:**  And on that front, I have to ask that, as much as you have to deal with, you try to talk to him.

**i.dahl:**  Out of all of us, you're the only one he ever really opened up to.

 

**a.fischer:**  Don't worry about me.

**a.fischer:**  I'll talk to him.

 

**n.frisk:**  But we _are_  worried about you.

**n.frisk:**  La Cour has the rest of us here. You don't.

**n.frisk:**  Now I want an honest answer this time. How are you?

 

**a.fischer:**  I'm fine.

 

**n.frisk:**  Fischer.

**n.frisk:**  I didn't log on to a secure chat to play games.

 

**a.fischer:**  Yeah, Ingrid said you talk about _feelings_  now. Miracles really do happen. ;)

 

**n.frisk:**  Yes, I talk about _feelings_  when they're regarding the damn fools responsible for them.

**n.frisk:** I know you're not alright.

 

**a.fischer:**  Then why ask?

 

**i.dahl:**  Because we're _worried_  about you, Fischer.

**i.dahl:**  And because as close as you are with La Cour, I know there are some things you can't tell him.

 

**a.fischer:**  Such as?

 

**i.dahl:**  That you love him.

 

**a.fischer:**  Of course I do. I love my team, that's not that unusual after everything we've been through.

 

**i.dahl:**  You were the one insisting on getting down to business, but you're the one dancing around the subject now. You want direct? Alright.

**i.dahl:**  You're in love with him. You've been in love with him for years, but you've never known what to do about it. So you did nothing. Well, now would be a really good time for you to do something.

**i.dahl:**  For your sake and for his, just come out with it and tell him the truth. Because we both know he won't make the first move and I can't watch you two stagnate like this.

**i.dahl:**  Tell him, Fischer.

 

**[a.fischer has signed off]**

 

**n.frisk:**  I think that went well.

 

**i.dahl:**  God dammit.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Fischer paces the room, arms folded across his chest as he puffs agitatedly on his third consecutive cigarette. His eyes continually check the computer screen a short distance away, watching the still-open chat like it's a wound up cobra. Ingrid hadn't been wrong. She'd been a little too right, in fact. But what she was suggesting was...

 

He can't just go doing something like that. Especially not like this, with where he is. A braver man than him would, but he's never considered himself particularly brave. Not with matters like this, in any case. Oh, he wants to. He certainly wants to. He aches for it. But actually coming out with it, putting it on the table, it's just not something he can do.

 

And with La Cour like this...

 

His stomach is twisting in knots at the mere thought. There's something wrong with La Cour and without Fischer there to needle him, he's gone right back to keeping it to himself. If there weren't an apparent target painted on his back, Fischer would jump on the first flight home. But it's not just the danger to his own life that keeps him in the Hague and even he can't be selfish enough to ignore that fact.

 

So he stands there watching his computer as Ingrid and Frisk continue exchanging messages for a few minutes before eventually signing off as well. He maneuvers the mouse to close the window, erasing all trace of any of them having even been there. Their words stay with him, though. Regardless of whether their feelings are platonic or romantic or something else entirely, he knows La Cour needs him. Just as much as he needs La Cour.

 

Tomorrow he'll write Ingrid an email.

 

But tonight he'll write one to La Cour.


End file.
